


You Take My Breath Away

by oxydiane, peachiinari



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: 1980s, Aged-Up Character(s), Aged-Up Gon Freecs/Killua Zoldyck, Alternate Universe - 1980s, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Coming of Age, Emotional Baggage, Fluff, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Moving On, Mutual Pining, Original Character(s), Original Male Character - Freeform, Past Gon Freecs/Original Character(s), Pining, Romance, Self-Acceptance, Slow Burn, Slurs, Tags May Change, Trigger warning:
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:02:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25958728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oxydiane/pseuds/oxydiane, https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachiinari/pseuds/peachiinari
Summary: Everything feels wrong.Distorted and nightmare-ish, sort of like a bad dream he can't wake up from.Because at the prime age of twenty, Killua Zoldyck has just lost it all. His family, his inheritance, and his life. He's stuck—stuck hating his predicament, his parents, and maybe most importantly, he's stuck hating himself.And maybe Heaven Nightclub has just the answer he's looking for. Maybe he can find solace in this establishment with people like him.Maybe, just maybe, a man who goes by the name of Gon makes everything feel a little less wrong.✧((or: Killua is kicked out and disowned by his family for being gay. Gon frequents a gay club and is one of the most sought-out men there. Together, they’ll take on life lessons that will change them both.))
Relationships: Gon Freecs & Killua Zoldyck, Gon Freecs/Killua Zoldyck
Comments: 146
Kudos: 219





	1. Chapter One

_Fuck._

His cheek aches. 

It stings _real bad,_ and Killua is sure that there’s going to be an ugly, purple bruise there in the morning. In the morning, when he wakes up in his not-room, in his not-house, in someone else’s home—and _fuck,_ he’s not even sure where the hell he’s going to be sleeping tonight, but that “someone else” might constitute his best friend. He’s not too sure yet. 

Because, for all that it’s worth, at the prime age of twenty, Killua Zoldyck has just lost it all. His family, his inheritance, and his _life._ All because, as his father had kindly put it before delivering a blow to his face, right over the spot where his mother had shamefully slapped him, he was a _faggot._

He’s familiar with the word. He knows it all too well. But he’s not at all used to it being directed _towards_ him. He’d flown under the radar well enough, _fooled_ everyone well enough, and fuck, Ikalgo had been helping him come to terms with his own feelings, they were making progress, but fuck. 

_Fuck!_

He stumbles out of the station, onto the sidewalk, reveling in the sight of Upper Manhattan—buildings upon buildings of brown and white, cracked asphalt and empty, torn-down lots. Corner ma-and-pa’s; big, obnoxious red letters read “FASHIONS” and “GROCERY”. The city always did have more cars than the suburbs. 

Killua scrunches his nose at the smell of cigars and weed. Tunes out the crowds of friends, tunes out the drunken laughter and yelling as he passes by them, keeping his head low. 

There’s somewhere he wants to be. His steps are a little too wide, the heel of his oxfords slamming onto the pavement a little too hard like he’s been cast onto a drunken spell, but Killua can see the building coming closer, into view. He chews on his bottom lip.

_The building he’s been eyeing for the better portion of a year and a half._

Heaven Nightclub. 

And God—he says His name with all within him, because there must be no God if this is where He’s let him fall— _God,_ he’d restrained himself. He’d looked away and swallowed the urge to enter the club, to maybe check it out—take a peak, like the voice in his head had urged him to, after he found out about the club a few months into attending Acadia University. But he abstained; held his tongue. 

A woman stands at the corner of the block, her fingers gently grasping his sleeve and tugging towards a shop. Killua’s eyes catch the ninety-nine cent peep-show sign and grimaces, giving a forced smile and shaking his head.

The woman lets go without much fuss. 

He always made sure his visits to Upper Manhattan were short. Otherwise, he’s not sure he could’ve found it in him to deny himself this. He _knows_ he wouldn’t have found it in him—with the few times he’d crossed the club, he’d caught himself staring at the shut doors and bouncers standing guard. He’d taught himself to turn away, to not crave to enter those doors and mingle.

With men.

Men like _him._

The nightclub was notorious for that, after all. 

For catering to homosexuals. 

He knows a little about it—the nightclub. When he’d first heard of it, passing it with some peers from the university, hearing their whispers about how such a club has been standing for a while—he’d researched it. And by research, he meant asking Ikalgo about it, or looking into the _Gay Yellow Pages_. The only nightclub in the area, between Washington Heights and Upper Manhattan’s Sugar Hill.

And with it, came a raise of eyebrows, some murmurs—others louder than others. 

Killua remembers his indifference to it, maybe a pique of interest—not that he’d say it aloud. 

But now, now, with everything lost and nothing gained, Killua has lost his inhibitions, and he finds himself simply not caring. There’s no reputation, no status to uphold. Not anymore. There’s only himself, and whatever he chooses to do with that piece of disguised freedom. 

At the corner of the neighborhood, the building comes closer into view—large in size and white in color. 

The queue into Heaven Nightclub is short—with only two other men in front of him. They’re wearing a blazer, but Killua can see the obvious dress-down from beneath the blazer—attire worn to party and have fun. They’re dressed completely different than he is, and for a moment Killua considers turning back. He’s not dressed properly for this place. His white hair is sticking out in all directions—tangled and untamed from its usual fluffiness, and his cheek—

His cheek stings like a _bitch,_ and he’s sure it’s swollen red now. 

The two men in front of him move inside—

—Fuck. 

Killua haphazardly tucks in his collared shirt into his slacks. 

“Three dollars.” The bouncer's voice is gruff, and he stares at Killua in wait. 

Quickly, quickly—alabaster hands rifle through a leather wallet, and Killua forfeits three one-dollar bills. There’s a ten left, and some more ones. Fuck. 

Faintly, Killua wonders how soon his bank account will be closed. 

No more thoughts—No more, the bouncer opens the front door and steps aside for Killua. One foot in front of the other, Killua steps inside, past the door, and he hears the bouncer chuckle, shaking his head and commenting something about _“university kids.”_

He doesn’t bother replying, taking steps further into the building, where the darkness starts to etch itself into the corners of the room. There’s a coat rack there, and a pile of blazers pooled on the ground.

_Should he take off his own blazer?_

Killua’s fingers rub at the sleeves of his jacket. The material is soft, but it’d make him stand out more than he already does. 

_Just take it off._

He removes it: pulls it off and hangs it onto the rack, setting it down softly, fingers letting go of 

The thump of the bass becomes more prominent the closer he gets to the actual inside, towards the large double doors just a little ways from the front entrance. 

Even putting his hands against the door to push, he can feel it. 

The music. 

And everything is so dark already, that opening the doors to the dancefloor forces him to shut his eyes and adjust to the bright lights flashing in every color. Loud music that makes his ears ring, he stands in front of the dancefloor, watching bodies pressed together, dancing to the rhythm of the music. 

Men on men, women on women. 

The smell of sweat, the sound of chatter.

Killua doesn’t know where to look. His fingers tremble.

There’s a man who’s dancing with another man, and their fingers interlock as they laugh. 

A lump forms in his throat, and Killua swallows roughly, eyes jumping around all the figures in the crowd. 

_He should’ve—fuck, he should’ve come with an idea of what to do at least._

He’s lost. He’s not sure what to do or where to go. And he’s standing there, at the door, looking like an idiot on a Thursday night, with a bruised cheek and messy hair. Not a very sweet sight. 

Killua’s eyes notice a man, this time at the corner of the dancefloor, standing and talking with a woman, before another man comes up and wraps his arms around his waist, pulling him into a smiling kiss. Laughter, louder chatting. A woman entwines her hand with the other woman. They’re having a good time. 

Something prickles in Killua’s heart.

Something he can’t quite place. 

But his throat feels dry, seeing the interaction happening so openly—seeing all the free dancing, without a care in the world. 

A swallow that nearly causes him to choke.

A drink. 

_He needs a drink._

And as he steps forward, he ruffles his hair—shaking the mop of white into something more fluffy—and makes his way towards the bar. 

The crowd starts cheering as the song changes: loud chants that follow the lyrics and beat. A sea of bodies, _of men,_ and Killua’s eyes linger a little as he passes. He tries not to stare. The bar is just behind the dancefloor, lit by neon lights—long and seats filled with patrons chatting or having a drink, watching the crowd. 

It’s only when Killua nears the bar that he registers the song playing as _Bette Davis Eyes_ _,_ and the cheering drowns out as his sight catches the figure of a man with bronze skin and black hair—elbow propped against the bar island and palm against his cheek, eyes hooded with a small smile as he talks to the man beside him.

_Fuck._

He really needs a drink, his mouth feels like sandpaper, but he’s nailed to the spot as the stranger’s eyes drift on over to him, look at him, take his appearance. And fuck, Killua watches his eyes lighten, just a little, in interest—catches the way he straightens his posture, and moves his hand away from his cheek.

Killua’s gaze wanders. Wanders to the black mesh shirt practically printed onto the man’s skin—tight and hugging his form, accentuating the soft muscles on his biceps and the small handles of fat on his sides that show from his position on the bar stool. _God,_ he doesn’t know if he can handle that. 

What to do?

Does he continue walking to the bar, or turn around and go somewhere else? 

The man’s smile widens slightly, and he shifts his gaze back to the other beside him, fingers dancing around his drink and twirling the straw ‘round and ‘round. 

_The bar._

Killua has to remind himself how to walk, just to avoid making a fool of himself. 

The only bar stool available is the one beside the black-haired man. Killua swallows and takes a seat, looking up at the bartender. He’s relatively young-looking, nearly rivaling Killua in height, sporting a pair of small glasses against the bridge of his nose. 

“One water, please.” His voice sounds scratchy. 

Yeah, he’d assumed it would, after this afternoon's events. 

The bartender nods. 

In the silence of it all, Killua is forced into eavesdropping in the conversation. It’s idle chatter, something to fill the time, Killua is sure. And it’s all met with clear, firm rejections— _Another drink? I’ve had enough tonight. Want to dance? I’m alright. C’mon then, let’s go to the bathroom. No._

A glass of water gets placed in front of him. The bartender is staring down the man beside him.

Killua takes a sip from the glass, frowning as he continues to listen, willing himself not to bounce his foot or thrum his fingers against the wood of the bar. The water glistens as he stares at it. 

“Then what do you want to do tonight?” An insinuation there. 

Silence. 

And then: “I’d say it begins with an _N_ and ends with an O _-T Y-O-U_ , darling.” 

Killua bites his lip to keep from laughing at the remark. The bartender smiles to himself, posture relaxing, polishing a beer glass with a kitchen towel. 

An annoyed huff, followed by the sound of creaking. Killua keeps his head down, into his drink, but he can see the man walk towards the direction of the bathroom, an odd shift to his walk. And then the alluring man is left alone, beside Killua, and his heart beats faster than it should. His cheeks tinge and warm. 

Internally, Killua battles with whether he wants to strike a conversation with the man or not. 

A quiet sigh, and Killua hears the stool turn—the screws and bolts squeaking from the pressure. He’s looking at him. The man is looking at him. Killua can feel his gaze. 

“All of them are the same,” There’s a certain edge to his voice. Killua can’t place it, but he turns all too quickly to face the man regardless. 

He’s smiling, biting back a laugh at Killua’s reaction. “Just wanting to take and take, y’know?” There—his eyes look over in the direction where the man went. “Most nights are like this.” 

It’s quiet. Killua doesn’t know what to say.

Gentle—a laugh. “Sorry, that’s a bad way to start a conversation. This is your first time here.”

It’s not a question. 

Killua spares a soft smile, looking over the man. His hazel eyes glow in the warmth of the neon lights, the freckles dotting every inch of skin more prominent. 

“Is it that obvious?” He can’t help the smile that graces his lips. 

The song in the background fades to another.

There’s a hum, and thinking, before he receives an answer. 

“Mmh, I would’ve noticed you before if you weren’t new—hard to forget a striking face like yours.” 

It’s impossible to control the flush that explodes onto Killua’s face, coating his cheeks and nose and ears, all the way down to his neck. Compliments like these, compliments from _men,_ in this sense, he’s not used to. Not at all. Killua is way out of his comfort zone.

Another laugh from the man. “That, and you looked a little lost walking in here.” He taps the glass with a manicured nail—Killua can tell from the gleam of the clear gloss coat. “Didn’t know where to put your eyes.”

He smiles at the man, looking down at his drink before up at him. “You could say that, yeah.”

They fall into silence. 

There’s something hanging in the air, and Killua knows he shouldn’t—probably shouldn’t indulge like this, but he takes the obvious bait anyway. He bites his lip, thinking over his words before opening his mouth and struggling the dying words past his throat. What’d he’d said early, he can build off of that. 

“I won’t just take.” Killua’s voice is surprisingly firm for how soft it was just moments ago. “I’m not like that.”

_Where was he going with this?_

It’s the wrong thing to say—surely, it sounds weird. God, it sounded better in his head. 

“We’re equals.” 

All at once, Killua wants to crawl into a hole and hide, maybe stay there a few couple of years, or maybe even rot away. Perhaps, if his goal was to _not_ score something with the gorgeous man, then he just epically won it. The words are weird, he shouldn’t have said it, but the silence had made him anxious, and, well—

For a moment, the man says nothing. He stares, quiet, eyes a little wide, before he pushes off the bar stool.

_Oh, he’s completely and utterly fucked this up._

_He’s an idiot._

_An actual idiot._

A laugh follows, and the man is smiling. 

“I’m not anyone’s anything, darling,” he says, hand out-stretched for Killua. 

Killua looks at the honey-kissed skin, and back up at him.

“You—”

“Want to dance with me?”

Killua’s mouth twitches from the rush of it all. His heart stammers and picks up and falls all at once. 

One second, two seconds.

The man waits, and Killua _knows._ He knows when to not pass up a good offer. 

A smile stretches his lips, and his eyes meet the man’s eager ones. 

“Yeah.” 

It’s perplexing, how the man’s hands are delicate and calloused all the same, as their fingers intertwine. He’s pulling Killua up, leaving the glass of water abandoned with his alcoholic drink. They tumble towards the dancefloor, Killua more than him, thoughts on overdrive, heart on hyperspeed. 

With the man’s fingers grasping his so gently, so tenderly, leading him to the near-center of the floor, Killua can’t help but bite out the words before he can fully stop and consider them—the blood is rushing in his ears, he can hear it over the music.

“I’m Killua.” 

The man looks over, eyes scanning his before smiling. “I’m Gon.” 

Rock music booms over the speakers. The lights come down in neon flashes, bathing the area around them in light for seconds before plunging them into darkness all over again, and it paints Gon’s already gorgeous skin in more color—makes him more appealing to the eye. 

“How old are you?” Killua asks, raising his voice. 

Gon grins. “Are you flirting with me, darling?” 

Killua’s breath spasms. His chest tightens.

He feels his cheeks warm, and the tips of his ears steam red. 

“I, uhm—I just...” He fails to find the words.

Light movements. 

Gon smiles. “I’m twenty. What about you?”

Those around them—the men dancing with men, or the women with other women—they become background noise: pure static to Killua. Gon begins to loosen up, hand letting go of Killua’s to sway to the beat of the music, and it’s like a punch to the gut. Gon has Killua mesmerized. 

“I’m twenty.”

And Killua follows him, loosening up with the music. 

“That’s good, then.”

Killua doesn’t make any motion to grab Gon—to pull him closer. He just sways along to the beat in front of him, at a foot's distance. One step forward, one back; they mirror each other’s actions. Gon looks a little surprised, but the smile on his face only grows with each passing second. _The atmosphere,_ it’s thick, and perfect—this is the perfect scene. 

Over the music, Gon leans a little closer to speak. “You’ve danced before?”

This time, it’s Killua’s turn to grin, cheeks scrunching as he nods. “Just a little.” 

Gon shifts closer, his hands coming up close to his chest, continuing his steps and sways. Killua repeats the motions and follows his rhythm in perfect synchronization. Forward and back, forward and back—follow the pace of the music, follow Gon’s lead. It gets an exhilarated huff out of Gon, whose eyes crinkle beautifully into crescents, and Killua _nearly_ falters then.

They’re getting closer. 

Maybe, they’re just a little lost in the music. 

Killua catches Gon’s eyes and can only see mirth dancing there. Dancing _with_ them. 

_How could he have waited this long? This long to enter the club?_

This, all this, it feels good. It’s exciting and fun and freeing all at once. 

Even if the thoughts in his head clash, he’ll ignore them for now. 

The beat of the music picks up. Gon looks expectant of something. He gets closer into Killua’s space. Killua only focuses on him. He knows the move he’s going to go for—gently taking Gon’s hand and spinning him. His shoes squeak against the flooring, and Killua’s own tap against it as they keep moving. 

“You’re a pleasant surprise.” 

There’s a smile on Gon’s lips.

And the giddiness fills Killua up eagerly—he bites away another laugh. He goes to remove his hand, not wanting to keep himself on Gon for so long, but Gon is nimble if nothing else, gripping their fingers together, bringing it up to his chest as they sway their hips.

The song changes. The lights flicker and lick over every spot on the dance floor. 

“Really?”

A laugh. Gon’s fingers release his hold on Killua’s own, now that they’re close, and he wraps his arms around Killua’s neck. Warmth. It’s warm and inviting. Gon doesn’t press close, doesn’t press his chest against Killua’s—but that’s fine. Killua doesn’t need more. He can keep up with him even better like this, under the streaming neon lights, in the heat of it all. 

Hips moving, following sequences.

Gon’s fingers tangle in the tufts of Killua’s white hair.

Killua keeps his hands at his sides.

This close, Killua can see the light spread of lip gloss on Gon’s lips. The slight smear of eyeshadow dressing the corners of his eyes. He looks... pretty? Handsome? Gorgeous? Is there a single word that can encompass him?

It’s so easy to lose track of time—with Gon’s arms wrapped around him, and the sway to the beat of the music is consuming. It’s addicting. Whatever Gon does, Killua follows. He goes through every single movement with a grin, and it makes Gon laugh over the music, looking down to hide his smile and muffle his laughter. 

Even over the music, the twinkle of his voice doesn’t get lost within Killua. 

“I haven’t ever met anyone who’s able to keep up with me.” 

Another song bleeds in. 

Sweat lightly coats both their skins, a sheen of it reflecting off of Gon’s forehead and cheeks. His cheeks are tinted red from their shared moment, lips open as he passes quiet breaths. Killua feels the exertion finally take a toll on his thighs, knees quivering under him, fingers trembling from the excitement that coils through him. 

Gon undoes his arms from around Killua’s neck, moving back to his own space to dance, and Killua lets him, a smile gracing his features, watching as Gon mouths the lyrics to the song, looking at Killua from below his lashes, continuing his pace. 

Killua may be tired, heart beating erratically within the confines of his chest, but he doesn’t plan on falling behind. 

Until they’re both huffing, and the lively moment winds down into exhaustion. 

“Can I…” Killua’s voice trails off, and he swallows. Gon looks up at him, eyes sparkling among the shine of his golden skin. “Can I buy you a drink?” 

He’s not sure if those were the right words, because Gon’s smile falters a little almost immediately, features pointing more towards disappointment—if only for just a second—before he reigns in his emotions and manages a forced smile. 

_Did he say something wrong?_

“Yeah.” His voice is tighter. 

Killua frowns, but steps out of the crowd of dancing regardless, making sure Gon is behind him until they’re back at the bar again. Fuck, he’s sweating so much. The white of his collared shirt is a little damp, and Gon’s shirt shows the expanse of skin that’s wet. 

It wasn’t even much, not fancy or pretentious like the ballroom dancing his family made him do, but he was having a _really_ good time. He eyes Gon as they both take a seat, and for a moment, Killua suspects that maybe Gon is the one to blame. That the man with spiky hair and tanned skin is most definitely the reason for the elated feeling in his chest. 

Alabaster hands smooth the bar top, tapping anxiously before Killua takes a seat. 

The bartender throws them both a glance.

Killua swallows. “Can I have two glasses of water?”

The stool creaks loudly, groaning in complaint as Gon spins quickly to look at him. Surprise coats his features, mouth slightly agape. 

The expression makes Killua stammer. “I was thinking you’d prefer water since you’re probably tired from dancing—and, uh, alcohol won’t be good for that.”

It’s silent for a few seconds, Gon in muted shock, before his lips twitch and he’s biting his lip to restrain a laugh, the palm of his hand coming up to hide it. Silver rings glimmer in the neon lights. 

Two glasses clink against the wooden top. 

“Y’know,” Gon starts, and the bartender is holding a smile of his own, “You really are a pleasant surprise.” 

It’s the face Gon is making—the twinkle in his eyes. 

Killua can’t really place it, or name it. 

His throat tightens. 

“I’ll—” Killua struggles to find the words. “I’ll be right back.” 

The bartender laughs outright then, and Killua turns, stumbling his way towards the bathroom for a moment of solace. 

Quick, quick. He passes men and women with indifference, opening the door and pushing into one of the stalls. One breath, two breathes—in through his mouth and out through his nose. He doesn’t even lock the stall, just presses his back against it, struggling to find the feeling in his legs again. 

Fuck, _fuck._

His hands tremble. 

He’s just a little overwhelmed. 

There’s panting in the stall beside him. 

He chooses to ignore it, stepping out of the stall after regaining his composure and looking himself in the mirror. 

Pale skin, and _goddamn,_ the bruise is nasty. It’s red and purple and every color not pretty—fuck, he can’t look all that pleasing. Sweat clings to his skin, cheeks dusted red from exertion, and Killua turns on the faucet, splashing the cold water on his face and blindly reaching for the paper towels. 

Tousle his hair a little, adjust his shirt in his slacks. So what, if he wants to look a little presentable—nevermind the _fucking_ bruise on his face. For a moment, he just stares. Stares into his reflection, into his eyes. Blue and orphic and bright. At the very minimum, that was still him.

He wasn’t even Killua Zoldyck anymore. Just, Killua. 

Clattering and a low moan pull him from his thoughts all at once.

His heart drops, and with more force than necessary, fingers numb and knees weak, Killua stumbles out of the bathroom, slamming the door open and making his way back to the bar. Gon is sitting there, swirling his glass of water, holding a conversation with the bartender. 

His figure is hunched, dimly lit by the neon lights, jawline highlighted—a small smile splayed on his lips. 

Killua’s fingers twitch.

The seat creaks and Gon looks over, smiling. 

“I’ve been wondering,” Gon starts, “Where’d you learn to dance like that?” 

“Like what?” Killua asks, and there’s a teasing lilt to his voice that escapes him. Gon passes the second glass of water to him. 

“Don’t kid, darling—you knew exactly what you were doing.” 

They share a laugh. Killua leans into the bar, forearms braced against the wood. Gon’s elbow is propped up, holding his cheek with his palm, eyes gazing into his. 

“My parents made me take ballroom dancing lessons when I was younger, for events.” Gon’s eyes widen. “But I like to switch it up when I’m alone and the music they didn’t like plays.” 

He gapes at Killua, posture straightening. “So—So you’re like, rich or something?”

Killua bites his lip. His body goes cold, very suddenly. Tonight’s warmth simply disappears. 

The memories of earlier come rushing back, and he grimaces, taking a sip of water to buy time. 

“No, uhm—” The words get lodged in his throat. “I was kicked out. For being—” 

He can’t help the way he brings up a hand to press against the swollen bruise on his face. It hurts to touch. Despite the furrowing of his brows, Killua forces a weak smile. The words die on his tongue. It feels heavy, saying it aloud. If he didn’t, it’s almost like it wasn’t true. 

“Sorry,” Gon says, “I shouldn’t’ve, y’know—”

Killua looks at him.

“You don’t have to pity me.” 

“I don’t pity anyone. But I understand the feeling.” Gon slides his glass away, looking into Killua’s eyes. “I really do, so, I’m sorry that happened. But you can’t value the opinions of others over yourself. You are who you are, there’s nothing wrong with that.” 

Oh. 

_What to say?_

The words—they’re, they’re softer than Killua had thought. They’re more meaningful than Killua thought they’d be. 

He opens his mouth, but the words don’t form. 

“I, uh, thanks—” 

There’s a man sliding into Gon’s space, hand finding purchase on his shoulder, he’s leaning into Gon, a confident smile on his face, and Killua’s heart drops.

“ _Bocca di rosa,_ ” he starts, voice low, but Gon shrugs his hand off him, eyes hardening. 

“Don’t.” 

The man looks taken aback, but continues to press regardless, pushing his hand on the bar to lean close again.

“C’mon baby, don’t be like that.” 

Gon furrows his brows before a smile widens on his cheeks and he cocks his head over to Killua. “Come back when you can keep up with me like he does.”

It’s embarrassing how quickly Killua flusters. 

But Gon’s attention to him had been nothing short of full: the flush rises to his cheeks and sprawls down his neck as Gon’s straightforwardness delivers a critical hit to the man’s plans. Decimates them in the simplest, of most teasing ways. 

“And I’m not your anything.” The words are punctual but light. 

The man _tsks,_ stepping away from Gon, heading back towards the crowd. But not before he throws a wink at Gon, turning to face another man. And it reveals itself to Killua, just how out of place he is in this nightclub. He didn’t belong with his family, but it feels like he doesn’t belong here either. 

It makes him anxious. 

It makes him feel guilty. 

It makes his fingers curl against the wood, just a little.

Gon huffs in annoyance, turning towards Killua.

“They never get a hint.” He meets his eyes. “Sorry about that.” 

Killua gives a weak laugh. “It’s alright.” 

They fall into silence. 

_Fuck._

His hands tremble. 

“I think,” he starts, “I, uh,”

“Gon.” A voice interrupts.

They both turn towards the bartender. 

The bartender looks over at Killua and gives a sheepish smile. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to talk over you. My shift ends soon.” 

Gon’s frown deepens. “But it’s—” He peers at the bartenders watch. “It’s only two in the morning.” 

_It’s two in the morning?_

The bartender huffs. “I have to take an early leave tonight. Some of us go to med school, you know.”

_Oh, fuck. It’s two in the morning._

_Fuck._

_Ikalgo—Ikalgo doesn’t even know he’s coming over._

“I have to get going anyway,” Killua says quickly, standing from his seat. They both turn towards him.

He doesn’t wait for Gon’s reaction. Doesn’t think he can. If Gon asks him to stay a little longer, he probably would. Not even probably, he definitely would, and he’s just met him.

_If Ikalgo isn’t awake then—_

“Darling!” 

Gon’s voice rings clear. 

Killua turns to look at him, nearly stumbling in the process. 

He grins—his cheeks bunching and eyes turning into crescents—standing from the stool as the bartender trades shifts with another person. “I want to see you around!” 

Something flutters in his chest.

Killua tries to give him a smile as he walks away. 

The front entrance to the nightclub opens with a push, and Killua’s blazer sits untouched on the clothing rack. He’s only mildly surprised that the thing is still there, considering its material and brand—but, well, he supposes people weren’t coming with the intent to steal. 

One glance at his watch makes his stomach sink pathetically.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._

He rushes out of Heaven Nightclub with more energy than he’s ever had—past the women standing beside shops and basement doors, past the stumbling, drunk men, past the smell of weed and sight of discarded syringes. He needs to make it to the subway station. It’s late, God, it’s so late. 

And as his oxfords slam against the cracked cement sidewalk, the only image Killua has in his mind is the image of Gon’s smiling face. 

It’s a quarter to three in the morning when Killua finally arrives at Ikalgo’s apartment. 

Sugar Hill isn’t far from Heaven Nightclub, but it still required taking the subway—and it still meant running out of the station towards the direction of Ikalgo’s apartment, past the rows of street lights flooding the asphalt roads. He nearly swears when he checks the window and sees the lights from Ikalgo’s apartment off. 

_He’s stupid, he’s so stupid._

_He should’ve gone directly to Ikalgo._

Killua opens the door to the front entrance and forgoes the elevator, opting for the stairs instead. Six flights of stairs are nothing—it’s absolutely nothing compared to the crushing feeling in his chest if Ikalgo _isn’t_ awake. What would he do? What is he supposed to do? Royal blue walls line his sight. 

The wooden door, numbered 610, taunts Killua.

Rapid knocking, knuckles against the frame—as hard as he can. 

Once, twice, three times. 

_If Ikalgo is awake, he’ll hear it—he has to._

_Fuck._

Seconds bleed into forever. His heart hammers in his chest the longer he doesn’t receive a response. Fuck—fuck! Ikalgo is asleep, Ikalgo is totally asleep, and—

Killua tries again, raising his hand to knock again, harder this time. 

The door clicks and unlocks before he can.

_Oh, oh, thank God._

Ikalgo is standing there, rubbing at his eyes, dressed in a worn tank top and sleeping pants, fingers gripping the doorknob and squinting at Killua. His nose is scrunched and he’s biting back a yawn, lips pressed together to suppress it.

_The relief that floods Killua is incomparable to anything else._

He rubs at his nape sheepishly. “Hey…”

And Ikalgo frowns, fully registering Killua’s presence. 

Killua can tell when Ikalgo’s eyes settle upon the bruise on his cheek. He stares long and hard, from Killua’s eyes back to his bruised cheek and ruffled hair. The slight creasing in his shirt. The feeling is pathetic. Being stared at like this, it’s pathetic. 

All he can do is give a weak laugh, voice a little broken—today’s events finally beginning to sink in. 

“Have room for one more?” 

Wordlessly, mouth slightly agape, gaze confused and concerned, Ikalgo opens the door wider, reaching for Killua’s wrist and pulling him inside. The tips of his fingers are warm, grasping him tightly. They’re so warm and familiar, Killua nearly cries—he feels his eyes sting. 

They don’t exchange any words, but Ikalgo is coming up and hugging him. 

God, Ikalgo is hugging him, shutting the door and hugging him so softly. So comfortingly. 

He nearly breaks then—feels his eyes sting and water. Instead, he sucks in a breath and shakily lets his hands come up to hug him back. 

“You can stay as long as you want.” His voice is hoarse and rough from sleep, and yet the words are spoken so carefully. 

_Want._

_Want, and not need._

_It’s a small difference, but all the more powerful to Killua._

Killua nods mutely, pulling away, mustering the best smile he can give. 

Ikalgo smiles back. “Take the spare bedroom. I’ll get you the blanket while you freshen up.” 

While Ikalgo rummages in the linen closet, Killua opens the door to the bathroom and opens the sink, splashing cold water onto his face. He looks up, at himself in the mirror. The bruise is swollen. He’ll get ice in the morning, then. 

There’s a knock at the door before it creaks open slowly. 

Ikalgo eyes him. 

“Here’s a new toothbrush I had, and some clothes to sleep in.”

The sink drips water. Droplets against porcelain echo. 

Killua smiles weakly. It doesn’t reach his eyes. 

“Thanks.” 

A huff of a quiet laugh. 

“I’ll be in my room. You know where everything is, but if you need anything—”

“Knock, I know.” Killua can’t believe his best friend is this good to him. “It’s alright. Go to bed.” 

Ikalgo stares for a few seconds before nodding. 

And with the creaking of the door shut, Killua sighs, looking back at himself in the mirror. He throws off his shirt and pants and changes into the spare clothing, tearing open the marketed container for the toothbrush and squeezing some toothpaste onto it. 

It hurts to brush his teeth—to widen his mouth. 

It hadn’t throbbed before, but now it did. 

Fuck. 

Once he’s done, all he can do is stare. 

Stare at himself and his failures. 

Lean into the sink, palms against the ceramic counter, and peer at himself. 

_This is who you are._

_This is_ what _you are._

He can’t stand to look at himself any longer. 

Stepping out of the bathroom, Killua makes his way past the bookshelf and sofa towards the spare bedroom, opening the door as quietly as he can. The blanket is set on the comforter, and the bed is already pulled back and unmade for him. An appreciative smile works its way onto Killua’s face despite how he feels. 

This, this isn’t his room. It’s not his house. It’s not him, but as Killua crawls into the bed and pulls on the covers—as he lays in his not-bed and stares at his not-ceiling, he can only think of his short night at Heaven Nightclub. He can’t help the small giggle that escapes him.

It’s a giggle that tumbles past his lips, coiled from excitement at the mere thought of what he did. 

Maybe, just maybe, of Gon too. 

A more relaxed smile splays on his lips. 

But then the thoughts clash—again, like they always do.

_His parents would be so disappointed._

_They’d be so disappointed and disgusted._

They already _are._

Eyes shut, he furrows his brows, bites his lip—wonders if he’s actually those things: disgusting and gross and disappointing and, and—

A pained sound tumbles out of his mouth, stuffing his face into the pillow to muffle the sound.

That night, Killua falls into an uneasy sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading the first chapter of "You Take My Breath Away"!
> 
> I'm very happy to be releasing another chaptered Killugon story after two consecutive (and lengthy) one-shots. It feels odd to be writing such short chapters, but they're a much smaller workload, and much easier to manage. That being said, I hope you all enjoyed the first chapter and pilot to our new series!  
> Sara and I have been working very hard on this AU, and it's an idea we've had drafted for a while. As it stands right now, we're still outlining and organizing the complete story, but we wanted to drop the first chapter which was already outlined as a surprise to everyone! I'm sure that this story will turn out just as lengthy as "You're Breaking My Guard", if not more so. There's a lot we want to discuss within the context of this story.
> 
> I start my freshman year of college next week (Aug 24, 2020), so I'm not sure if I can continue the two-day update speed I had for YBMG with this fic. Updates seem like they'll be sporadic, so I apologize in advance for that :( I do wish that I could be consistent with it, since I know people really liked the fast updates, but it may not be doable with the workload between Sara and I.
> 
> That being said: this story will feature themes and concepts you may be uncomfortable with. Tags are subject to change, so check them regularly. While explicit Killugon smut will not be written, it may be left to implication. There may be implications of sexual content between other characters not concerning Killua/Gon. There are gritty subjects that will be discussed, as well as the exploration of sexuality and self. We'll try to stay accurate to the time period of the 80s as well! The story will deal with self-love, internalized fears, etc., so please proceed with caution!
> 
> We look forward to the feedback and kudos of this new story! Please don't hesitate to comment and let us know what you thought (ﾉ^ヮ^)ﾉ*:・ﾟ✧
> 
> I have a Twitter, so yell at me on there: [@peachiinari](https://www.twitter.com/peachiinari)  
> Due to popular demand, I've made a tumblr: [@peachiinari](https://www.peachiinari.tumblr.com)  
> 


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A laugh tumbles past his throat. It bubbles and rips past his lips, and Killua is bringing his hand down his face, covering his eyes as soon as he feels the familiar stinging feeling: presses the pads of his fingers into his shut lids to will away any forming tears.

Killua awakens covered by a blanket of unfamiliarity. He doesn’t recognize the bed he lays on, or the walls painted a light blue. He doesn’t recognize the smell of the sheets, or the feeling of warmth from the covers. The ceiling is spackled white instead of a clean texture, and the window in front of the bed streams in sunlight he’s not at all accustomed to. 

Everything comes rushing back.

The dinner, the shouting, and slap, and beating. Alluka’s screams of fear and Kalluto’s gaping silence and—

—And, Gon.

The nightclub. 

Killua’s head pounds. 

It’s a confliction of feelings; anger and shame and giddiness, they swirl within his chest. 

He grimaces and sits up, rubbing circles into his temple. Everything is wrong. Everything feels so wrong. Now he’s here, fuck, he’s here, at rock bottom. All because, all because he was different. He didn’t want to be different—didn’t _want_ to be anything out of the normal. 

There are footsteps outside the bedroom. 

Clattering and sizzling. Something clinks against something else. 

Killua ruffles his hair, tugging the white strands down and sighing. Ikalgo must be awake already. 

The world spins as he pulls the covers off and stands on his feet, a low ringing in his ears. The wood floor is cold, tingling his bare feet, and Killua is quick to shuffle outside, opening the door to the bedroom and coming face first with the smell of fried bacon and eggs. 

If his mouth waters, no one has to know. 

The door shuts, and Ikalgo looks over, smiling at him. 

“Hey man,” he says, grabbing the skillet and hovering it over a ceramic plate, “made you breakfast.” 

Killua grins. “What’s the occasion? Didn’t think you’d make _my favorite_ out of virtually nothing you can cook.” 

Ikalgo chuckles. “I don’t want to hear shit, I’m trying—go wash up, your bed hair really is somethin’ else.” 

Killua does as told with a dutiful salute, hand coming up to his forehead, posture going rigid, and Ikalgo snorts, shaking his head. The bathroom door is shut, and in the morning light, opening it is like entering another world. The potted plants covering the ground practically stretch to reach the sunlight, vivid green leaves glistening and waving slightly from the air conditioner. 

He takes the spare toothbrush and brushes quickly—eyebrows furrowing when he widens his mouth, fingers skimming the purple bruise. A light press into the skin has him pulling away quickly in shock, nearly choking on the toothpaste. He spits it out, coughing into the sink and swearing lowly. 

“You alright?” Ikalgo’s voice calls. 

“Y—” Killua chokes back another cough. “Yeah, ‘m fine!”

He struggles to catch his breath, running the water and wiping his mouth, then his face, carefully avoiding that son-of-a-bitch bruise. 

_This is what his life is now._

He steps out of the bathroom, and Ikalgo is standing by the small dining table in the kitchen, setting down the plated eggs and bacon in front of one of the chairs. He looks over, before busying himself with the stove again, cracking two eggs into a bowl and whisking. 

Killua takes a seat at the table, taking the fork slowly. 

It’s quiet. 

It’s not like it’s uncomfortable—it’s never really uncomfortable, but…

The events of yesterday, showing up unannounced, Killua is sure that Ikalgo has questions. 

But his best friend isn’t stupid either—he’s sure that Ikalgo has some idea of what happened. 

Another plate clinks. The skillet of scrambled eggs gets emptied onto it. 

Killua watches with careful eyes. 

The saltshaker makes an obnoxious sound as Ikalgo pours it lightly over the eggs. 

On Friday’s, Killua wouldn’t even be home at this time—his eight am class would be near done now. He’d be on campus, maybe planning with some friends to grab a drink and breakfast after the lecture ended. He wouldn’t be here, not ever. Not here, having an elaborate breakfast, his _favorite_ breakfast, with Ikalgo.

Ikalgo sets down his own plate on the table. 

Pulls the chair out—it scratches against the wood flooring. 

Killua looks up, meets Ikalgo’s eyes, and looks back down at his plate. The fried eggs and bacon are still sizzling. The fork digs in. Yellow drips and leaks onto white. 

Brings the egg up to his mouth. And he looks up again. 

Ikalgo’s gaze is worried. He opens his mouth. Shuts it. 

Killua swallows the egg.

Ikalgo opens his mouth again, finding the words. 

“You don’t have to tell me—” Ikalgo starts. 

“They found out,” Killua says plainly. Detached, maybe. He wants to detach himself. 

From the situation, from _himself, too._

“They found I was…” He trails off, unable to form _that_ word. “Y’know… and they just… kicked me out.” 

Saying things will always be so different than thinking them. Than knowing they happened. It’s never the same. 

_It makes them real._

Killua takes a breath. He finds the courage to meet Ikalgo’s eyes again: shocked, gaping eyes stare straight into his. The clicking of the clock is imminent, a constant—a buzz and tick that won’t go away. Every tick that passes, Killua feels more sick. More, and more, and more. 

He sets the fork down with trembling hands. 

The situation had crashed down on him once already—when he’d just left the house, but—

—Again? It’s crashing down on him again. 

A laugh tumbles past his throat. It bubbles and rips past his lips, and Killua is bringing his hand down his face, covering his eyes as soon as he feels the familiar stinging feeling: presses the pads of his fingers into his shut lids to will away any forming tears. 

_Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic._

“Thuh—They were disgusted.” His voice is wet. “They were disgusted. I’m disgusting. I’m so disgusting, and ashamed, and embarrassed, and—”

A frown laces Ikalgo’s features, Killua can see it, the way his brows furrow deeply, and his lips turn down. 

“That’s not true at all.” The words are sincere, Killua knows they are. “You’re yourself, and that’s what’s most important. So you like men, that’s just how it is. And there’s nothing wrong with that. You’re not disgusting, they just want you to feel like you are, because you don’t fit in their little box.” 

Killua stares hard. 

He knows they’ve been over this—this conversation—for years now. It’s been years and Killua is still struggling. 

“You can’t fix what’s not broken, y’know? These feelings were forced onto you, but they’re not yours.” Ikalgo takes a breath. He hasn’t touched his breakfast at all. Killua is sure it’s gone cold. “We just have to take small steps at a time, until that weight is gone.”

“Yeah…” Killua’s voice trails off, a small mumble. 

He takes another bite of his eggs and bacon. They’re a little colder now. He finds he doesn’t really mind. 

“And for the record,” Ikalgo says, taking a bite of his scrambled eggs before grimacing and swallowing, “Sorry—too much salt—anyway, for the record, just so you, y’know, _you know,_ you can stay for as long as you want.” 

The words linger in the air. 

Last night—he’d appreciated it. It had been calming, gentle words that he needed. But now, bathed in the morning sun streaming from the living room and kitchen windows, Killua feels something tighten in his chest, and a pang of guilt consumes him whole. 

“Ikalgo, I appreciate it, I really do—”

“—I know damn well you don’t have anywhere else to go, don’t decline.” 

Killua shakes his head. “No, no, I wasn’t going to say that either, trust me, I’m really grateful for the offer—just, I’ll find a job to split the rent of this apartment.”

“Absolutely not. It’s not necessary,” Ikalgo says firmly.

A deadpan expression crosses Killua’s face. “You’ve done a lot for me. Now I’m living in your apartment for an indefinite amount of time. Let’s split the rent, at least.”

Ikalgo sighs. “It’s not necessary. I rather you find a job and save for yourself.” 

They stare each other down. 

Fuck, they’re both stubborn. 

He knows this. _Has_ known this. 

“How many years have we been friends?” Ikalgo asks dryly. 

Killua opens his mouth to reply. 

“If you say less than four years, I’m gonna jump over this table and wrestle you down.” 

A snort escapes Killua, and then, a smile. “Think maybe we’re leaning into five years now.” 

Ikalgo hums. “Right, which means you aren’t paying me anything. We’ve been best friends for a while. This is stuff best friends do.” 

Killua frowns. “It feels wrong. I don’t want to leech off you.” 

“You’re not leeching.” 

“I’ll get a job and buy the groceries, then. And cook,” Killua says over him, for good measure. 

An unimpressed gaze meets Killua’s, before Ikalgo sighs and takes another bite of his breakfast, scraping the plate for the little bit left. Killua has already cleared his own plate of food. 

“You’re so stubborn.” There’s no malice in his voice, and a smile slips onto his lips quick enough. 

Ikalgo stands, taking the empty plates from the table and placing them in the sink. The faucet runs, and Ikalgo is efficient, scrubbing the plates and skillet clean in record time. Killua stands, wiping down the table and recentering the potted plant. He stares out the window, down at the street. Some cars pass by, other people are walking. 

_And Killua is here._

“Can you reach for the newspaper? It’s on the living room table next to the TV.” 

Killua walks over, reaching past the record player and TV for the newspaper. 

“Under your abysmal pile of letters too, you forgot to add.” 

He looks over, catching Ikalgo’s somewhat embarrassed face. 

“It’s just mainly bills and tuition statements.” 

Killua snorts, waving his hands dismissively. “It’s your house.” 

Ikalgo dries his hands, and Killua walks over, leaning against the counter as Ikalgo takes the newspaper from him and flips the pages, knotted fingers skimming past the folds of brown paper and black ink. Killua’s eyes catch headlines of Rock Hudson’s death—his two-hundred-fifty-thousand donation to AIDS research. 

Damn. 

_“The First Major Celebrity to Die From AIDS”._

_What a headline._

Ikalgo flips the page. 

“Here.” He points to the right column. “Some job listings.” 

Killua makes a sound of acknowledgment, looking over some of the options. 

A salon looking for stylists, a tire shop around Washington Heights, a cashier at a hardware store. Home movers, taxi cabbers, grocers. There’s so much to look at, so much consideration—Killua feels a little overwhelmed. Ikalgo gasps suddenly, tapping his finger against one of the lower options on the list. 

“This bakery isn’t far from here, it’s a block down. You won’t have to take the subway.” 

Killua can’t help the skeptical look that crosses his face. 

Ikalgo playfully pushes him. “Don’t be a hardass, they’re looking for someone to work there. You like cooking.” 

“Cooking isn’t baking.” 

Another shove. 

“Hey!” Killua bites back a laugh.

Ikalgo snorts. “Save your smartass retorts for the bakers. Who knows, maybe they’ll throw some powder or whatever on you for being a brat.” 

“It’s called flour.” 

A third shove, and Killua is reaching forward, just narrowly missing Ikalgo’s arm to shove him back. 

“Anyways!” Ikalgo laughs, just out of Killua’s reach. “I’ve gotta get to class.” 

The mood dampens a little. 

Killua is reminded of his situation once again. 

How he’s lost it all. 

No more medical school, no more paid tuition, no more helping Alluka. 

The smile slips off, and he averts his eyes, hands coming up to rub at his elbows. 

Ikalgo comes closer, placing his hand on Killua’s shoulder, thumb rubbing soothingly on the skin there. 

“Don’t think about that. Anything you want me to tell the others?” 

The thought of his friends knowing—knowing what happened and why it happened, that Killua is different— _he isn’t, the other part of his mind battles_ —it makes him feel sick. It makes him shudder and break into a cold sweat, it makes him think of all the ways he can lose more of his precious friends. 

Killua swallows and shakes his head. 

“No—don’t, don’t tell them anything. Just, y’know, say I’m sick. The semester will be over soon, we can say I transferred to another university for the spring term.” 

Silence. 

Killua looks up to meet Ikalgo’s eyes. 

It swirls with sadness. Maybe pity. 

He’s not sure. 

It makes him feel worse. 

“Alright. I’ll get dressed and get going then. Uh…” Ikalgo trails off. “Are you going out right now, or staying?”

Killua’s not too sure he can stand leaving the confines of the apartment at the moment. 

“Staying. I’ll look over the newspaper for other stuff.” 

Ikalgo nods. “’ll take the Macomb bridge to Home Depot so that they can copy the apartment key, then. I want you to have your own.”

“Pretty sure that’s illegal,” Killua says dryly.

A shrug. “Nothing against it in the lease.” 

They share a small laugh. 

“Get going then,” Killua says softly, “You’ll be late for your epistemology lecture.” 

“The woes of a history major and philosophy minor.”

“Oh, cry me a river, you did this to yourself—get going, idiot.” 

There’s a grin on both their faces, before Ikalgo gives a nod and heads into his room. Killua stares as the door shuts, before sighing and taking the newspaper, taking a seat at the dining table. He flips through it a couple of times, looking at the article on Rock Hudson briefly before letting his eyes wander towards other articles. 

Nothing else on the AIDS pandemic, but he’s not entirely surprised. The stigma of AIDS keeps it out of the newspaper. It’s a miracle that the story on Rock Hudson mentioned AIDS at all. 

One of the articles, printed smaller, taking less than a third of the page—it’s not even an article, not really, it’s more of an advertisement—announces the weekly writing contest, along with a twenty-dollar reward, and—

—Oh, that’s a lot of money. 

Twenty dollars is a lot. He could buy a new pair of Lee Denim pants, or even a pair of dress shoes. A new collared shirt, maybe? If the contest was weekly, and the price was the same—

“I’m heading out now.” 

Killua’s head snaps up. 

“Be safe.” 

Ikalgo smiles, and though his hand is on the doorknob, he lingers. 

“Hey—” he struggles to find the words, “Everything is gonna be alright.”

He gives Ikalgo a smile. “Yeah.”

“If you’re gonna check out the bakery tomorrow, you can wash your clothing at the laundromat just down the hall.”

A nod. Ikalgo stares before giving a weak nod of his own, and finally heading out. 

Killua is left in silence. 

Silence, and a newspaper. 

A newspaper, and a writing contest. 

He shouldn’t—shouldn’t indulge in such a trifling thing. 

_His father would say that._

But Killua isn’t with his father anymore, is he?

He’s no longer Killua Zoldyck—he has to remind himself of that. 

He’s just Killua. He’s just Killua now. 

He can indulge. Indulge in whatever he wants, and that includes writing. 

Killua takes another look at the advertisement. 

_“Something that recently interested you”._

_Interested him?_

_Like, anything at all?_

Physical or nonphysical? Object or human?

He feels almost guilty, how quickly his thoughts go directly to Gon. Gon, who takes up a portion of his mind with zero effort, and Killua is left feeling breathless with the memory of their shared dance. Of Gon’s voice, soft-spoken and teasing and smooth like honey, dipped in a slight accent. 

Gon, who was every bit elusive and alluring. Who garnered the attention of seemingly every man in the nightclub. It should be embarrassing with how easily Killua was intrigued. How easily he was taken with the man. 

The words just form in his head, and Killua scrambles up, grabbing a napkin from the kitchen counter and tumbling towards the guest room for a pen. 

Write, and write, and write. 

There’s a lot he wants to say—how every word Gon uttered was a cursive of the English language, how his smile outshone everyone else's, how the lights that hit his golden skin made him look like the sun itself. 

The blue pen touches the napkin, and Killua doesn’t stop writing. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Killua is nervous. 

He’s nervous, but excited—maybe a mixture of something more. 

His blazer and collared shirt are laid out on the desk chair of the bedroom, over his slacks, and his oxfords are cleaned: a tedious process of cleaning leather with a wet paper napkin. He’s overcome with so much—nerves, mainly, but the chance at _maybe_ scoring a job if everything goes well outweighs everything else. 

Ikalgo is up just as early as yesterday, preparing something smaller for breakfast this time as Killua dresses. Killua pulls on his slacks, pushing the ball of his feet into his oxfords and sliding them on. He’s careful in tucking in his shirt, passing his hand down the creases, and carries his blazer on his forearm to avoid sweating too much before heading out. 

He’ll have to slide it on before heading outside anyway—the October air is particularly chilly today. 

Killua stares down at his own white shirt.

The pads of his fingers skim the cuffs, barely brushing the material, and he thinks of Gon’s hands—Gon’s fingers touching and grazing it so softly that night at the nightclub. That gentle touch is washed off now. It’s gone, just like that night—it’s just a memory now. 

_Maybe he should go back, like he said—_

“Killua?” 

Ikalgo’s voice rings loud. 

Killua startles, scrambling and reaching for the hairbrush, brushing back a section of his hair. It almost feels like he’s going to class. 

_He knows he isn’t._

“Give me a second, will you?” 

“I’ve given you plenty!” Ikalgo laughs, “The earlier you get to the bakery, the better it looks.” 

Killua opens the bedroom door. “I know that, idiot.”

Ikalgo raises his hands in surrender, making a mocking face. “Whatever you say, idiot.” 

There’s a piece of toasted bread and two boiled eggs on his plate. He deadpans. 

“Thank you _so_ much for the good luck charm, really.” 

“Don’t be an ass, eat.” 

They both snort, and Killua takes a seat at the dining table. He takes a bite of the toast while Ikalgo fixes himself something else—he can’t see past the wide form of his shoulders, but it smells good. The stove hisses from the gas, and there’s a pot discarded in the sink. 

The time reads nine-twenty-two.

_It’s not too late into the morning, at least._

“What’re the chances I actually land this?” Killua asks, digging his fork into a boiled egg. 

Ikalgo looks over his shoulder, taking in Killua’s form. 

“If I’m honest, no idea. But it’s not like it’s a formal job, I doubt presentation matters to them as long as you’re hygienic.” 

Killua swallows the wet yolk before replying, setting down the fork. “I’m sure the place wants to stay up to sanitary code.” 

A chuckle. 

“Then I’m sure you’ve got a shot. What’s the worst they can make you do? Make pastries?”

Killua stands, picking up the plate and fork and reaching over Ikalgo, hand coming to grip his shoulder for support, placing the dirty plate and cutlery in the sink. 

Ikalgo stills under his hold. 

“If I have to make pastries, I hope you know I’m bringing extras here.” 

A moment of silence before Ikalgo replies. “So I’ll get to taste your shitty baking too?” 

“Shut it or I won’t cook shit for you.” 

Ikalgo stares blankly, unimpressed. “You’re the one who insisted it in the first place.”

Killua crosses his arms. “And I still will, so suck it up.” 

“Then don’t make baseless threats.” He shoves him lightly. “And get going, you’re wasting time.” 

There’s always a particular warmth to Ikalgo’s apartment—Killua isn’t sure if it’s the disastrous amount of plants littering the rooms, or the ridiculous dirty yellow color of the walls, or even the questionable hue of furniture and the hum of the record player spinning some random vinyl in repeat. 

But it’s warm—warm in a way that the Zoldyck estate never was. 

Killua only remembers feeling unhappy, feeling like he was in an elaborately-decorated prison of white walls and marble floors—high ceilings and two stories. Bleak walls. Empty rooms. No individuality or personality. Ikalgo’s apartment is different. 

And as Killua steps out of the apartment, bidding a quick goodbye to Ikalgo, he’s only further reminded of the lack of personality the Zoldyck estate had. 

Even the apartment doors in the complex had character: Signs on the doors, or welcome mats, or even a ridiculous little child’s drawing on one of the doors near the stairs. 

Sugar Hill is different from the suburbs of Great Neck Estates—there are more people, more personality. More chatter and conversation and sociability. There are actual crowds, and even if the buildings all look similar in color, something would set them apart: whether it was the architecture details, or greenery, or the people that hung around it. 

He steps down the stairs, onto the sidewalk, shrugging on his blazer.

It was different from the suburbs—the city is always different. 

Killua craves that difference, and at the same time, he abhors it. 

_Being different is bad._

_But maybe it could be good._

He takes long strides down the sidewalk. 

_If he could just be himself._

Down one-hundred-forty-ninth street, towards Amsterdam Avenue. 

_But being himself meant being different._

The bakery should be just down the block once he reaches Amsterdam Avenue. Killua mutters to himself as he walks, feeling the nerves starting to eat away at him again. He just has to take a left, at the end of the block across the street—the bakery will be there. 

He just has to cross the street, walk inside, not make a fool of himself.

_Easier said than done._

And the bakery is coming into view, neon sign turned off, red-painted walls. 

_Happy Flour._

It’s an odd name, but the joke rests in the air—the type he knows his grandfather would make, and his father would stare, not at all fazed, and Illumi would keep quiet, asking what the purpose of the joke was. It’s the type of joke that would make Alluka laugh—he knows it would. 

A fond smile crosses his face as he crosses the street into the bakery. 

The bell at the top of the door dings, signaling his arrival, and the first thing that really hits his senses is the _smell._ It smells so sweet, of fresh bread and pastries—and his senses aren’t wrong, because there are two rows of refrigerated pastries on display, and a wall full of different loaves of bread and crackers. 

There’s a man who looks up from behind the counter, hair braided and picked up into a high ponytail, a purple apron over the white collared shirt. His pale skin rivals Killua’s own alabaster one—and their eyes meet, taking in each other’s appearance. 

For a moment, Killua loses the ability to speak, nerves bunching up at his throat. 

“Can I help you?” He asks, standing up and walking closer, “Is there something you’d like to order?” 

_Speak, idiot._

Killua stumbles forward, hands stiff at his sides. 

“Actually, I was here because I heard you were hiring.” A cold sweat forms on his body—palms clammy. 

Features furrowing, the man pauses. His ponytail moves as he nods, hair bouncing. 

“Wait here—I’ll go grab my partner.” 

_Partner?_

The music is low, playing within the silence of the bakery—a quiet hum, Killua is sure that that’s Frank Sinatra’s voice over the speaker, tapping his foot along with the beat to quell his thoughts and raging nerves. He keeps the click of his heel muffled against the tile flooring, looking around the building. 

Bright walls—a menu for ordering cakes sits atop one of the display cases, and behind it, shelves among shelves of large crackers and merengues. Killua can count at least ten different types of bread, fresh and hot from the heated case they’re sitting within. 

“You’re the one here to apply?” 

Killua’s head snaps to the new voice and—holy shit. 

The man in front of him, opening the door which leads inside the kitchen, stands there with his arms crossed. He’s huge—skin tan and a hair styled into an obnoxiously large pompadour—hands dusted in flour; he gives Killua an expectant, impatient gaze. 

He scrambles to reply. 

“Yeah—Yes.” 

The man looks him up and down, eyes drifting from his blazer to his slacks, to his oxfords. Looks at him and takes in every detail—Killua struggles to not fidget under his gaze. His height surpasses Killua’s own, and he sighs, undoing the strap from his apron and using it to clean his hands. 

“Alright, kid. Follow me, c’mon.” 

Killua steps forward, footsteps light. The nervousness starts to melt, just a little. 

“I’m Knuckle, the owner of this bakery.” He looks over at the other man. “That’s Shoot—my business partner.” 

_Oh._

_Business partner._

_Of course he didn’t mean_ that _way—_

Killua nods. “I’m Killua Zoldyck.” He pretends that saying _that_ last name doesn’t sting. That it doesn’t make the bruise on his cheek throb more than it already does. 

Knuckle looks over at him for a moment, before looking forward again.

“Why’re you interested in working here?” He pauses, looking at Shoot and signaling at the door. “Go out front, in case any customers show up.” 

Maybe Killua is reading too into it—Shoot mentioning a partner so easily must be messing with his head. He’s definitely reading too much into it. That must be the answer, there’s no reason to read more into the hand that grazes Knuckle’s hand as Shoot walks out. 

_Stop overreading._

“I needed a job, you were hiring.” 

Knuckle looks unimpressed with his response. 

“And the nasty bruise on your face? You get into fights? We don’t need troublemakers here.”

They pause in front of the multiple ovens.

Killua takes a breath. “My father hit me. I moved out.” 

He leaves out the fact that he was kicked out, and not simply that he decided to move out. 

The condescending expression slips off Knuckle's face.

Silence fills the space. 

“This is the oven, there’s some bread baking right now. Every hour, we make ten loaves of bread. You’ll help with that every once in a while. You ever worked the cash register?” 

A shake of his head. “No, but I’m a quick learner.” 

Knuckle huffs, looking away to hide his smirk. 

“How would you describe yourself?” 

Without missing a beat: “Outgoing and funny. Responsible and hardworking.” 

Killua tries not to stare, but he’s too damn perceptive for his own good—and he can see the way Knuckle smiles, hands undoing from their crossed position at his chest. Hope swells in his chest. 

“What’s your availability?” 

“Any day, any hour.” 

Knuckle raises an eyebrow, looking down to meet his eyes. “Any hour?”

A nod. 

“You’d show up here at the ass crack of dawn?” 

Another nod. 

It’s quiet, before Knuckle erupts into a loud laugh—shoulders shaking from the force of it all. 

“Alright then—I want you here tomorrow morning, five in the morning, before opening.” 

_Is—_

_Did he hear that correctly?_

Killua does a double-take. “Tomorrow? Tomorrow morning?” 

Knuckle’s grin widens. “Yeah, what about it? I thought you said you were a faster learner, kid.” 

“But you didn’t—no interview?

Another loud laugh as they head out towards the front of the bakery. Shoot is there, leaning over the counter to hand an elderly woman a bag of pastries and a loaf of bread. She smiles warmly and slowly walks out, posture hunched over and steps feeble. 

“You want me to interview you formally? First, your clothing is too formal. This is a bakery, kid.” 

“Don’t be harsh on him.” Shoot’s voice interrupts, low and calm. “He’s just started, he wanted to leave a good impression.” 

Knuckle turns his attention back to Killua, unimpressed. 

“How old are you?” 

The uneasiness slips off so easily. It’s simple and warm. The anxiety fades with every passing second. 

“Twenty,” he says, “just turned twenty this past July.” 

A hum. “How’s three-fifty the hour sound?” 

_Three-fifty?_

_A whole three-fifty?_

_That’s above the minimum wage._

Killua stares, wide-eyed. Shoot hides a laugh behind his palm, turning to busy himself with the counter behind him—tidying it up. Knuckle waits. The words are lodged at Killua’s throat, unwilling to spill past his lips. It’s hard, really hard, to voice his gratefulness. 

He’s filled with emotion and reduced to a nodding mess—a wide smile lacing his lips, eyes crinkling, and he can feel the swept-back state of his updo undo itself, locks falling down into their natural fluffy form. 

A hand comes up and ruffles his white locks, rough and calloused. 

“Fill out the paperwork tomorrow. We don’t have the forms right now.” 

The conversation lulls. And Killua is antsy—antsy to get back to Ikalgo, to tell him the news, to tell him he got the job and can help out now. 

“That’s fine.” Killua scrambles towards the door, oxfords slamming against the tile floor not-so-softly. “I need—I need to get going.” 

Knuckle barks a laugh. “Somewhere you need to be?”

The door dings as Killua’s hands push against the cold metal, and he turns around. “Have to share the news with a friend.” 

He doesn’t turn to look at Knuckle, or Shoot. God, he barely looks down the street before crossing, practically running across the road in the chilly October wind. The leaves crunch under his feet, and a grin laces his lips—breath getting caught in his throat. 

Giddiness, eagerness. 

Positive emotions fill him. 

Everything is _good._

Killua rips open the apartment complex door, tumbling up the stairs. His fingers catch the railing as he steps forward, taking four steps at a time, and then he finally reaches the sixth floor, pushing the staircase door and fumbling with the key to the apartment. His hands shake and tremor, and a cord of electricity runs down his spine in absolute excitement. 

The door opens. 

Ikalgo is sitting on the couch, reading a newspaper. 

He looks up at Killua.

“Back already?”

“I—” Killua breathes, and a smile breaks out on his face. “I got the job!” 

Ikalgo doesn’t even look down when he sets down the newspaper, quickly standing to his feet and coming closer. 

“You did?” 

“I did! I start tomorrow morning—I’ll be filling out the forms then too.” 

“That’s—that’s great!” Ikalgo mirrors Killua’s bright smile with one of his own. “Your first job, too!” 

A nod as Killua shrugs off the blazer, the warmth of the apartment finally getting to him, and the exertion of the run catching up to his beating heart. He’s so thrilled, that the next words slip past his lips without any thought and without any filter. 

“I won’t be a burden now; I can buy the groceries and make the meals so you won’t have to.” 

That makes Ikalgo pause. 

The smile slips off. 

“Killua—”

Killua struggles to meet his gaze. The mood dampens. His hand's twitch and fingers curl. 

“Sorry—”

“Who ever said you were a burden? You’re not.” He comes closer, hands lifting hesitantly before wrapping around Killua’s torso. “Not once have I thought that you were a burden.” 

It’s kind of hard to breathe. 

Ikalgo’s grip tightens.

“Everything is going to be fine. You’re not a burden, not here. I’m happy you’re here.” 

Slowly, Killua releases a bated breath. 

A weight lifts off his shoulders. It feels a little less heavy—the load he’s carrying. 

“Thanks.” 

His arms raise and return the hug. Ikalgo leans closer into his touch.

“I care about you a lot. Everything will be fine.” 

The voices in Killua’s head die down, just a bit. They turn into a quiet mumble rather than hoarse whispers. Just for a moment, he’s given solace. 

_Yeah._

_Yeah._

_Everything will be fine._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading Chapter Two of "You Take My Breath Away"!
> 
> Hello everyone! It's been awhile—I apologize a thousand times over for the delay in this chapter's release. I've been absolutely swamped with work for college, and balancing writing, my self-study, and homework is a challenge in and of itself. Although, it's really a lot of fun, I love studying for my classes and then hopping on to write for this au, it works as a really nice de-stresser. 
> 
> I am rather upset that my previous update speed of 2 days how now been knocked down to a speed of two weeks, so truly, I do apologize. It's currently two in the morning as I finish writing this—LOL. This chapter focused a lot more on Killua and Ikalgo, and establishing more of the world than mentioning Gon and the nightclub, but don't worry—he's there! And he'll be making an appearance again soon. For those of you who have read Sara and I's previous fics, you already know how Killua and Ikalgo go, it's practically our trademark at this point HAHA. 
> 
> Killua was able to land a job easily thanks to Ikalgo's help, and he's still struggling majorly to come to terms with his situation. I'm sure he'll figure everything out eventually!
> 
> Please remember to leave kudos or a comment! They're much appreciated and keep us motivated to continue writing! 
> 
> I have a Twitter, so yell at me on there: [@peachiinari](https://www.twitter.com/peachiinari)  
> Due to popular demand, I've made a tumblr: [@peachiinari](https://www.peachiinari.tumblr.com)  
> 


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Don’t let Boca de Rosa captivate you too much, kid. Nice to see you again.” 
> 
> He can’t help the ways his cheeks fluster—the way his fingers twitch and he stumbles in stuffing his wallet back into his back pocket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Chapter contains heavy flirting. Descriptions are somewhat detailed. Please proceed with caution and read at your own risk.

It’s been—

—It’s been a week.

A _long_ week, at that.

While Ikalgo attended his classes at the university, Killua was going to the bakery, working so many hours that he was coming back to the apartment at the brink of sleep, swaying on his feet. Vaguely, in those moments of mental blankness and a vague sense of self, he can recall Ikalgo holding him upright and laughing lightly—chiding him on how much he was working.

And he was.

He was working plenty.

But it also meant that this entire week was spent in good rapport with Shoot and Knuckle, in the confines of their bakery, working the brand new cash register they’d just purchased, figuring out each individual key and what to press for every order. Which meant that it had been one entire week away from the club. Away from mingling and figuring himself out.

His thoughts wander. Even if he doesn’t mean them to.

_Away from Gon._

Killua flusters, hands trembling slightly: slams his toothbrush back into its designated cup, rubbing his face with the faded wash towel vigorously. The bruise on his cheek has turned a pale green—bleeding into a sickly yellow color. And shit, he would normally be upset, but he’s just glad the damn thing is fading and healing after a week's time.

At least it doesn’t sting anymore.

The bathroom door creaks open as he steps out, limbs jittery with a certain coiled excitement, his breath trapped in his throat—he struggles to cap down the excitement, just a little. It’s hard: knowing he’ll be going back, maybe get a chance to see Gon again. His lips twitch into a suppressed smile.

He shrugs on the blazer he’d worn last week—pulls on his loafers with the edge of his index finger, lightly knocking on Ikalgo’s door before opening it.

Ikalgo is sitting at his desk, fingers thrumming against the oak as he reads his textbook, and Killua almost feels bad for interrupting him in the middle of his studies.

Almost feels bad for going out to have fun, while Ikalgo is sitting here getting an education and a degree and a future and _fuck—_

He doesn’t mean it to.

But his thoughts spiral.

“Killua?”

Killua startles, grimacing awkwardly, pulled back into reality. “Hey, I’m, uhm, I’m heading out.”

Ikalgo frowns, turning to look over at the clock on his table.

He turns back at Killua. “It’s twenty-five to ten.”

Silence.

“Yeah.”

“And you’re going out?”

“Yeah.”

Ikalgo doesn’t move. His hand rests on the desk. Killua rubs his sleeve, just a little nervous—a little unsure. Unsure about a lot of things, yeah, but this decision—

“Alright, you’ve got the keys.”

Killua gives a tired smile—etched with excitement nonetheless, feeling a smidge of playfulness simmer within him, and just as he’s stepping out, he turns and pokes his head back into Ikalgo’s room:

“Shut the books and get some shut-eye, dude. No guy is gonna look twice if you look a hot mess.”

Ikalgo sputters—a faint resounding _“hey!”_ of indignance travels out of the apartment as Killua rushes out and locks the door.

The weather’s dropping as the days go on—the mid-October air bringing forth temperatures in the sixties, and there’s a chilly breeze that caresses Killua’s skin as he walks the streets of Sugar Hill towards the subway station. Unsurprisingly, Convent Avenue is practically deserted, but the surrounding apartment windows glimmer a vivid yellow, and Killua knows that in such a neighborhood, no one is doing anything like he is.

No one is walking out of their homes at twenty-five to ten to head six blocks north towards the subway. No one is walking out of their homes at twenty-five to ten to take the subway down Amsterdam Avenue for—

—for a gay nightclub.

_God,_ he’s disgusting.

He grimaces, biting his lip.

The skin is practically chewed off.

And the city grows gradually more full of life the more north he heads. He walks past the woman at the entrance of stores, walks past the beggars who he can’t spare a dime towards. Once again, the smell of weed fills his senses as he approaches the subway station.

_Don’t spare a glance._

Killua pays for his ticket, boards his train.

_Don’t linger._

Killua is reminded of sitting in his—in his father’s house. Sitting in the study and reading over the newspapers, glancing over the heavy printed words about the rise in crime: Manhattan was crime-ridden, completely overcome, with tensions thicker than ever before. Territories fought over—the Rotten Apple had gotten its name for a reason.

Everything is shit. York New, in its glory and entirety, is utter shit.

It’s not a long wait—rather short, and Killua is barely left to his thoughts before his stop is announced. And the walk to Heaven Nightclub? Even shorter. His watch reads nine-fifty-six o’clock. Not too late, not at all. Maybe—maybe he can spend a little more time with Gon. If—if—he’s here tonight.

Killua wonders how much luck is on him still.

Not much, probably.

Just judging by recent events.

Call him a little pessimistic, won’t you?

There’s no one in line, the bouncer standing guard alone in the dark, outside in the chilly weather. It’s probably too early into the night regardless. Careful steps, one foot in front of the other, Killua pulls out his wallet, fingering the flaps for the dollar bills.

“Three dollars.” Same gruff voice.

Killua hands it over, and the bouncer’s eyes linger just a little longer, before stepping aside with a small smile and stifled chuckle.

“Don’t let _Boca de Rosa_ captivate you too much, kid. Nice to see you again.”

He can’t help the ways his cheeks fluster—the way his fingers twitch and he stumbles in stuffing his wallet back into his back pocket. He recognizes the nickname—the nickname the men called Gon. Killua swallows roughly and ruffles the white strands of his hair as he enters the nightclub, shrugging off his blazer by the door and hanging it on the coat rack.

The bass booms, a song he’s not all too familiar with playing loudly, and Killua takes steps forward until he’s entering the room and coming face to face with the dancefloor all over again. The neon lights, the smell of sweat—men on men and women on women. And yet—

—His vision narrows in on Gon, dancing with the sway of his hips with another man: his hair blonde and reaching his nape. Killua doesn’t recognize the other man, but his eyes stay on Gon, who’s smiling over the music and having the time of his life.

His vision, it narrows in on Gon, who's wearing a button-up shirt—a few buttons at the top of the shirt left unbuttoned, exposing his chest, teasing—paired with fitted black pants, hugging his frame snuggly.

He feels dumb, standing here oggling Gon. He should try and dance, or… or head to the bar and sit and just wait for Gon to finish. God, that sounds pathetic. He’s such a loser, _fuck._ But the man who was dancing with Gon steps away, and Gon doesn’t seem to mind the change of pace, because he’s turning seamlessly and dancing with another stranger.

A little part of Killua wishes it was him there.

He fiddles with the cuff of his collared shirt, before shutting his eyes and shaking his head, turning to head for the bar.

“Hey.” A voice shouts over the music.

There’s a man just standing there, in Killua’s way. He looks all smug, and Killua doesn’t recognize him at all, but he doesn’t wait for a response, tilting his head in Gon’s direction.

_“Boca de Rosa_ is easy, he’ll leave you high and dry, don’t waste your time.”

A frown overcomes Killua’s features rather quickly, brows furrowing deeply, lips downturning, head recoiling back in shock of the words. He opens his mouth, ready to retort.

“I wouldn’t call—”

“Wouldn’t you know?” Another voice speaks, and it’s the blonde-haired man, leaning forward with hooded eyes, the neon lights giving his eyes a red gleam.

Pale, thin fingers are reaching out, and the blonde-haired man is grabbing Killua’s forearm, pulling him towards the bar, leaving the man baffled in his wake.

“I’m Kurapika, a good friend of Gon’s, I’ve been hearing about you.” There’s a lilt to his voice Killua can’t quite place.

The barstools squeak as they take their seats, and he recognizes the bartender from last time—tall and lean, small frames on his face.

“Have you?”

Kurapika gives a laugh, resting his hands against the island bar, fingers curled, a smile on his lips, flips his eyes over to Leorio in gesture.

“Leorio hasn’t seen Gon this restless for someone’s return, well, ever.”

A grumble, and a sigh. The glass bottles clink against the wood as Leorio pours another drink for a customer.

“He wasn’t very cautious, kept looking over at the door. Think he was letting up today. Although,” Leorio pauses and looks Killua over, “You look like you’ve seen better days.”

“What can I say?” Killua gives a weak chuckle. “Working heavy hours now.”

“Really? You weren’t working before or something—laid off?”

Killua winces, scrunches his nose in thought, struggling to find the right words. How does he explain, without feeling upset at himself? Does he even owe an explanation? Killua runs through his head, filters the thoughts and tries to find the right words. He’s definitely being weird about this.

Fingers skim his shoulder, wrist moving past his collarbone and resting there momentarily. And Killua turns, confused, before he’s mere inches from Gon’s face—his nose nearly brushing against Gon’s, and Killua feels the heat run up his face, feels the blush consume his skin at their proximity.

Words lodge at his throat, lungs losing their air.

_Fuck._

Killua swallows roughly.

Gon flashes a smile, his skin shining from the sweat, eyes meeting Killua’s gaze and holding it there for a second. It feels like an eternity. Killua nearly loses himself and sinks in the caramel of his eyes. Nearly forgets where he sits, where he is, because—because Gon is breathtaking.

His makeup is light, lips tinted a clear gloss, gleaming from the neon lights, and his eyeshadow covers the hoods of his eyes softly, blushing them a golden brown. Killua simply can’t keep his eyes away.

And Gon is slow to pull away, fingers trailing away from his shoulder, nails gliding against the plains of his shirt, raising goosebumps in their wake. Pulls back, away from Killua, giving him a sultry smile, taking a seat on the stool to Killua’s left.

“It’s nice to see you again, darling. I was starting to think I scared you off.”

Killua flusters a deeper shade of red, eyes darting down, bowing his head slightly in an attempt to hide just how embarrassed Gon’s attention makes him. He can hear Leorio snicker, can feel Kurapika’s gaze on his back. A finger hooks under his chin, nudging his face to come back up, and Killua is met with the sight of Gon leaning against the bar, resting his cheek against his knuckles, a small smile on his face.

“I,” Killua sputters, “I always planned on coming back.” And after a moment: “Are—are you this forward with everyone?”

Gon laughs, and pauses to think, before a smile spreads wider on his face and he pushes off his knuckle to lean closer into Killua’s space, breath ghosting the shell of his ear. Killua’s fingers tremble. His thoughts go haywire.

“I’ll let you in on a secret: only for those who really matter.”

And just like that, he pulls away, a grin turning his eyes into beautiful crescents. “So what’s this I hear about work?”

“Just working heavy hours,” Killua pauses and grins, “Since no one told me being kicked out meant being broke.”

They all share a laugh.

Killua’s hands still tremble from Gon’s advances, and he brings his hands up to ruffle his white locks of hair.

“I’ve been alternating between ten and twelve hours shifts.” His eyes dart down monetarily, and then back up to meet Gon’s eyes. “Is it healthy? No. But is it necessary? Totally. Finally got my paycheck today.”

A smile spreads further on Gon’s lips, and Killua nearly has the urge to fiddle with his bangs—tug on the white hair just a little to soothe the nerves coursing through on high alert. It makes him giddy—as childish as it sounds—that his jokes make Gon smile. He’s more than just a little embarrassed, and definitely out of his comfort zone, and, and well, the ugly thoughts—

“Oh, have you—” Gon pauses, turning to gesture to Leorio and Kurapika. “This is Leorio, he’s accumulating a nice tab of student debt in medical school right now. And this is Kurapika, possibly the only sane one of the three of us.”

The words make a burst of laughter spill past Killua’s lips, and he covers his mouth, cheeks bunching as he laughs.

“We already introduced ourselves to Killua, while you were out frolicking in the crowd.” Leorio deadpans.

Gon pouts. “Well, I’ll do it again, since I’m the outgoing one here.”

A squawk of indignance from Leorio, and he’s setting down the glass cups with more force than necessary, leaning forward on the counter to Gon. “I’m outgoing too!”

“Right, right.” Gon laughs, eyes trailing back to Killua. “What better way to celebrate your first paycheck than by spending it?”

In a sudden surge of confidence, Killua speaks, forgoing the embarrassment and shyness biting at his core.

“And who better to spend it on than you?”

“Well, since you’re offering, darling.” Gon turns at Leorio, “Two sex on the beach. I think Killua likes sweet things, like me.”

There’s no hiding the grin that spread across Gon’s face, and the clear double implication of the word makes Killua go red, biting his lip and averting his gaze before nodding dumbly—his newfound confidence fleeting and gone.

“Pack it up, kids,” Leorio says lamely, “I’ll make them now.”

The drink itself is pretty—served in a tall glass, soft red and orange, bleeding into a yellow hue. The orange slice adorns the rim, and Killua eyes the drink carefully. His alcohol tolerance isn’t the best, and he isn’t exactly fond of the bitter taste and burn that he _knows_ will find home at the back of his throat.

But—

—for Gon.

Killua brings the drink up to his lips, taking a careful sip. The sweet smell fills his senses, and all at once, the fruity taste dissipates into something stronger—burning his throat—and Killua pulls the glass away, coughing and scrunching his face in disgust.

“How—” Killua gives another cough. “How many shots did you put in this?”

Leorio snorts, a sound of mischievous glee escaping his lips. “Two shots.”

“Thought you could hold your alcohol better than that, darling,” Gon says, and just as Killua looks at him, Gon is popping the bright red cherry into his mouth, holding Killua’s stare, before winking unabashedly.

God, _fuck._

_He’s doing this on purpose._

_Fuck._

“Leorio…” Kurapika says, exasperation clear in his voice, though it holds no malice, “your strongest mix.”

“So, you mean, the usual?”

A light chuckle. “Yeah.”

Glass clinks and bottles run on the wood—ice plops together and gets swirled and blended into something Killua isn’t quite familiar with, but he watches as Leorio just pours what seems like a little _too_ many drinks, and worries for Kurapika’s liver.

Their fingers skim—he sees it: the way Kurapika lets his fingers brush Leorio’s. The way Leorio flushes. The way Kurapika keeps cool and doesn’t do much else but offer a small smile. He’d be wrong to think that he wouldn’t do that with Gon too, if the opportunity arose.

Good god, he’s so embarrassing.

Killua watches as Gon swirls his drink, taking its final sips of life, while Killua struggles to take sips of his own—but he refuses to just let it sit there, and admittedly, embarrassment floods his system at how weak his tastebuds were. So, despite himself, Killua forces himself to take careful, calculated swallows of the fruity hellscape.

The cherry though—he’s never been fond of them, and well—

“Are you gonna eat that?”

Killua looks up, grimacing. “Not exactly in my court of favorability.”

“Really?” Gon leans forward, hand coming to pick the cherry off, and dips it just a little into the drink. “I think you just haven’t had them right.”

Without warning, Gon’s finger hooks under his chin _again—oh God, again—_ cherry held by his thumb and index finger, and Killua opens his lips, no thought going into it, _Jesus Christ,_ he just opens his mouth and lets Gon come closer, their faces are so close, they’re so close, inches apart—

And instead of feeding him the cherry, he’s rubbing it against Killua’s bottom lip slowly, letting the taste of the drink slip into his mouth and his tastebuds fully, and its gentle bliss is nothing compared to what Killua feels now, cheeks flustering lightly at Gon’s ministrations. At how easily he’s complying with Gon’s every move.

Gon rubs the cherry in a full circle, letting it nudge further into Killua’s mouth, and his eyes lift from his lips momentarily to Killua’s eyes.

He licks his lips.

“Close.”

Killua complies—shuts his lips slowly around the cherry, and Gon is tugging on the stem until it splits off from the round fruit. Killua’s heart thuds in his chest, going at one-hundred-fifty, and if he were still studying medicine, he would’ve joked about currently experiencing tachycardia.

_Chew._

He has to remind himself to chew the damn fruit. But he does, slowly. Eyes not once lifting from Gon, and they both maintain eye contact. Heated—it’s heated, and Killua feels the skin of the fruit get mashed under his teeth. Despite how unpleasant the taste is, despite how much he dislikes it—

—if Gon is the one feeding it to him, he could make the effort to like it, just a little, definitely.

Just like that, the moment is over, and Gon is pulling away to sit back into his seat fully, resting his chin against his palm.

“How have you been faring since the move-out?”

Oh.

His voice is serious.

_How is he able to do that?_

_How is he able to pull away and act completely nonchalant about his own actions?_

Killua finishes chewing and swallows.

“I’ve been okay—I was able to move in with a friend.”

Gon smiles.

“But I miss my little sister a lot. She was different from the rest of the family, and I worry about her, y’know? I’m worried that she won’t be okay now that I’m not there, since I was really all she had.”

Gon looks a little stunned, lips opening into an “o” shape, and Killua flusters from embarrassment. It’s the alcohol—he’s blaming the alcohol.

“Sorry—”

“No, no,” Gon says quickly, and then gives a gentle smile. “I’m sure she’s fine. It sounds like you both care about each other a lot, and the people you love will always find a way to reunite, regardless of circumstance, so don’t worry.”

Killua’s heart warms, filled with a funny feeling of appreciation. It’s warm and sticky like honey. Sweeter than any candy or chocolate he’s ever had. Maybe it’s the alcohol.

Regardless, he appreciates the comment.

“Thanks, Gon.” A small smile splays on Killua’s lips, and Gon gives a half-smile, nodding.

The conversation grows a little quiet—lapses into a silence, filled only with the loud music of the nightclub. And usually, Killua can appreciate the loud bass and familiar tracks, but—

Anxiety claws and rises within Killua. He wants something to fill the silence. Desperately wishes Gon will make another comment. Some glasses clink, something shakes—and oh, _oh God,_ Leorio and Kurapika were still there, right next to them, and they saw _the entire thing_ happen. Killua suddenly remembers their presence, and his entire face goes red.

“So now that _that_ has transpired—” Leorio jokes, leaning against the counter, “Killua, will you be attending the Halloween party?”

Killua frowns despite Leorio’s initial comment making him want to walk right out of the club and not return.

“What party?”

Leorio sighs, before chuckling. “The posters have been on the walls since the start of this month.”

“To be fair, he’s had his eyes on me this entire time.”

Killua sputters.

“If we’re being real,” Kurapika interrupts, “he’s only been here twice.”

“ _And_ had his eyes on me the entire time.” Gon says, a tinge of smugness in his voice.

Killua wants to hide his face in his hands.

“We digress,” Leorio says over them. “There’s a party every year for Halloween, and the nightclub has been throwing annual party celebrations. You’re free to come; Gon, Kurapika, and I spend it together.”

“I’m gonna be a witch this year, darling,” Gon says, resting his cheek against his knuckles. “I’m sure you would’ve loved to see me last year, I was an angel.”

Killua struggles to find the words, but his expression seems to be enough, because Gon giggles.

“Leorio is gonna be a doctor, and Kurapika is coming in as a pirate.”

“I’m practicing for my residency,” Leorio says proudly, and Kurapika covers a smile with the palm of his hand.

Kurapika turns to Killua. “So then, what would you come in as Killua?”

The assumption that he’s coming—when he hasn’t even agreed in the first place—it makes his head spin. It makes him a little lightheaded, mind muddled with an appreciation of the fact that he’s wanted here, edging on an _insistence_ to be here, with them. It soothes the part of Killua that still struggles to come to terms with certain things.

_The part of Killua that rears its ugly head and whispers disgusting things about himself._

“Oh, I, uh—” Killua stumbles. “I haven’t ever really been to a Halloween-type-thing?”

He’s unsure of himself. Rubs his neck in embarrassment.

“You know how it is with wealthy families.”

Gon hums.

“You should be my familiar.” There’s a smile on Gon’s lips. “Since I’m a witch. You’d look good with a collar.”

A flush spreads across Killua’s cheeks—spanning down his neck and tinting his ears red in near seconds.

“You want me to dress as a cat?” He asks.

Gon crooks a finger against his lips in thought—it’s hard to not dart his eyes down, but Killua successfully refrains.

“Yeah,” Gon says decidedly.

Kurapika gives a laugh.

“Gon, I think you might make Killua combust, give him a break.”

A pout crosses Gon’s features, eyebrows downturning, creasing the bridge of his nose and puffing his cheeks until the shimmer of his makeup is more clear under the neon color of the nightclub lights. Killua thinks Gon is breathtaking, even in mundane, idle things like this. 

“Anyways,” Leorio huffs, “There’s also a special Halloween drink every year.”

“It’s some crazy concoction he comes up with on the spot,” Kurapika says.

Leorio sputters. “It is _not!_ I’ll have you know a lot of thought goes into the annual drink! Plus, that wasn’t the point.”

Nimble fingers work to fix another customer a drink, and Leorio continues explaining.

“Gon is making a few finger snacks for the party, and Kurapika is banned from helping.”

Killua gives a startled laugh, failing at keeping his disbelief hidden.

“Do I want to know why?”

“He fucked up last year,” Gon says blandly. “Leorio, can I have another drink?”

“Sure.”

“I did _not_ fuck up last year!” Kurapika says in indignance.

“I know you and I know you fucked up last year.” Gon deadpans and looks at Killua. _“Someone_ confused baking powder for baking soda!”

Kurapika grows quiet. “I—That’s not true!”

“Last year's sad excuse for bread says otherwise.”

Killua can’t keep in the laughter anymore, and bursts out laughing, leaning against the counter to hold himself up, clutching his stomach, cheeks aching from the stretch of his smile, eyes screwed shut. It’s hilarious—the way they’re bickering with each other. It’s goodhearted and wholesome and friendly, and overall just good-natured.

Gon is smiling, accompanied by Leorio’s own grin.

“Killua can be the judge of your cooking this year, Gon,” Leorio says.

“Well that’s not exactly fair either,” Gon says. “You can’t pit me against five-star-restaurant-goer McGee here. But—”

Gon turns to Killua, his voice slowing and becoming more sensual.

“I hope you’ll like it, darling.”

Killua fights the blush from spreading on his face. And he’s sure he could probably blame it on the alcohol at this point—he’s blushed so much, Gon makes him so flustered. But he’s cool and confident like that.

Kurapika is bickering with Gon once again, Leorio trying to intervene, but he goes ignored as Kurapika questions Gon’s words, and Killua, for once, is happy with the changes in his life. He’s happy with the indirect and direct actions that led him to this moment.

He’s glad he’s making new friends; more friends who are understanding.

More friends he shares similarities with.

More friends to share experiences with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading Chapter Three of "You Take My Breath Away"!
> 
> Hello everyone. I apologize for the delay in chapter updates. There's a lot of things that have happened, between my classes and semester, and other things that should probably be addressed. Sara and I are no longer co-writers, or collaborating, nor are we together. Despite this, they are still the co-writer of this story, and many other of our au's, and I intend to credit them fully because these aren't completely, singularly my ideas. I would appreciate that no one asks Sara for answers or asks them about me—please respect our privacy.
> 
> Most importantly, I nearly dropped Killugon and everything in its entirety after a harassment campaign due to my fics got some traction on Twitter. I nearly attempted suicide, and was in the ER for a day since I lost a drastic amount of weight. My passion for Killugon has been largely dimmed, but it's slowly coming back with time. If you were on Twitter, you probably saw the comments and such about me, all which have been disproved and corrected. Some of the people have apologized to me, and I appreciate that. I do not divulge into this for pity or for guilt-tripping, I'm just saying it as it is. 
> 
> Please be cautious of how you treat someone online over fictional ships and characters. They are a real person with feelings. 
> 
> That being said, a lot of development happened in this chapter! Gon is pretty openly flirty with Killua. Does he mean any of it? That's for you to decide. Killua is pretty into him, he's just a little lovesick puppy, haha. I hope everyone enjoys their banter and flirting, because this will diminish and become scarce as time passes, LOL. 
> 
> I'd love to hear what you guys thought of this chapter, and once again, I apologize for such a large lapse in updates and for a shorter chapter than usual. 
> 
> I have a Twitter, so yell at me on there: [@peachiinari](https://www.twitter.com/peachiinari)  
> Due to popular demand, I've made a tumblr: [@peachiinari](https://www.peachiinari.tumblr.com)  
> 


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alabaster fingers reach for the cat ears sitting on the bed; Killua turns towards the mirror, carefully placing the ears atop his head, observing how the black contrasts with the white of his hair and the paleness of his skin. The turtleneck is cropped, and exposes a sliver of his stomach—his abdomen, defined—and he feels a little embarrassed knowing Gon will see him in this.
> 
> Stop.
> 
> Killua shakes the thoughts from his head, biting away the disgust and refutation that threatens to run through him. 

Embarrassment floods Killua’s system. 

He feels dumb—standing in the fitting room of some new Halloween store called Spirit Halloween, trying on some weird cat costume they found in one of the aisles, and Killua knows that Ikalgo is standing outside, waiting to see it. But—God, Killua looks at himself in the mirror and feels his own face grimace against his will. 

The cheap leather of the bodysuit feels weird against his skin—hugging in all the wrong places: the lower half of his body too tight and the upper part too small for his chest, straining against his pectorals and biceps to the point where Killua can’t even zip the damn thing up all the way. 

There’s no way the zipper  _ isn’t _ broken, Killua can feel the material stretching to accommodate his serratus and rhomboid muscles, and the more he moves, the further back down the zipper glides. He turns, trying to get a feel for the outfit, but it only makes him frown further and wrinkle his nose. 

Well—

—Rip off the bandaid, right?

_ That’s how the saying goes? _

Killua pulls back the curtains of the fitting room, carefully looking around before stepping forward. Ikalgo isn’t focused on him, his gaze on some other costumes. 

“This doesn’t fit right,” Killua says after a moment, unimpressed. “I look stupid.” 

Ikalgo’s head snaps up. And Killua can see the way Ikalgo processes the costume, eyes widening, lips falling a little open, before being promptly shut. 

“Consider that maybe it's because you picked a woman’s costume.” He deadpans, crossing his arms. 

Killua huffs, tugging on the sleeves of the outfit in discomfort. This was dumb—totally a dumb idea. He shouldn’t be going out of his way like this, for something this dumb, for Gon. It’s a little pathetic to want to impress the man this badly. To listen to his words. But his thoughts wander to Gon’s words and well—

“The men’s section doesn’t have cat costumes—we looked, idiot. And I doubt this is even a cat costume.” 

Ikalgo takes a step forward and looks Killua up and down. 

“It’s Catwoman, why are you surprised? She wears this.” 

“It hardly holds resemblance to any cat feature.” 

Ikalgo chuckles, looking over Killua’s shoulder at the shoddy costume bag, gesturing vaguely to the bag. 

“You’re not wearing the cat mask or the golden claw gloves.” 

Killua frowns. “There’s no point in putting them on, I’m definitely not wearing this.” 

“I…” Ikalgo pauses and swallows—averting his gaze. “I think you look great.” 

An incredulous expression forms on Killua’s face, squinting over at Ikalgo. “You have shit taste, dude. This is why I don’t let you pick my outfits.” 

“That’s not on me, you just can’t handle my tastes.” 

They share a laugh. 

“But,” Ikalgo starts, “Why are you trying so hard? I’ve never seen you care this much about Halloween.”

Killua stares into the mirror, into his own reflected eyes.

“Just wanted to try something different this year—y’know? The nightclub I told you about earlier this week, they’re having a Halloween party.” 

A dry hum. “So that’s why we’re here.” 

Stepping into the fitting room once again, Killua signals for Ikalgo to come closer. “Yeah, idiot, why else would we be in this damn store at nine in the morning on a weekday—help me zip this down, I’m definitely not getting this.” 

“It’s not even that bad, I told you, you look great.” 

Unsteady hands work down the zipper. 

Killua turns his head to look at Ikalgo. “It’s also thirty bucks. You know how much I could buy with that money? There are so many classical literature books I can buy—I could even snag some new loafers and coats.” 

“Right, or, hear me out,” Ikalgo says, a grin on his lips, pulling his hands away, “you could buy the damn costume.”

Killua shoves him, pushing him out of the fitting room. 

“This is way too attention-seeking and morbidly unflattering.”

“I’ve told you you look great,  _ twice.”  _

A deadpan expression melts onto Killua’s face. The pole which holds the curtain rings squeaks as Killua pulls it shut, practically ripping off the costume with the urge of  _ freedom. _ Its material feels gross across Killua’s skin—cheap and badly sewn together, the stitches itching his skin and rubbing it a little red. He frees his arms and reaches for his turtleneck laid on the chair. 

“Yeah, and that was utter shit,” Killua says, and then he pauses, before speaking up again. “Have you picked your costume?”

Silence. 

And then:

“My costume?” 

Killua pulls on his pants quickly, fingering the back of his loafers to slip his feet back in. 

“Yes, your costume. You’re coming with me, there’s no way I’m going alone.”

The curtain opens, an ugly screeching sound resounding from it as Killua adjusts his shirt into his pants. 

Ikalgo is crossing his arms, half a grin on his face. “And just because you’re going, I have to go by extension too?” 

Killua chuckles. “What is it that we used to say in high school? ‘You don’t get to veg out, we’re a package deal’?” 

“That’s the one,” Ikalgo confirms, taking the costume bag from Killua’s hands and putting it on the return counter. “So then, what now?” 

Without another second of hesitation, Killua grabs Ikalgo’s wrist and tugs him forward, fingers gripping the skin of his wrist as he makes his way back down the men’s aisle, face set in determination, loafers squeaking against the waxed tile flooring. 

“We’re finding you a costume.” 

Ikalgo stumbles in his words—Killua can hear the way he sputters, but he pays him no heed, eyes scanning each individual costume across the polished shelves. 

“And what about  _ your _ costume?” Ikalgo asks, finally finding the words. 

Killua hums in thought, before a smile breaks out and stretches his lips, eyes crinkling in mirth. 

He points at the clown costume on the wall. “I think this one suits you.” 

Ikalgo turns his head. Pauses. Stares in disbelief. And all at once, it registers in his head, palm lightly smacking Killua’s shoulder and shoving him back in indignance. 

“If you don’t shut your mouth—”

A loud laugh escapes Killua’s lips. 

They’re lucky that they came into the store on a weekday, so early in the morning. Killua had to call off his morning shift and embarrassingly give Knuckle and Shoot the reason for his absence, but it was somewhat necessary to be in the store when it was primarily empty—considering the initial plan had them wandering in the women’s section regardless.

He’ll make it up to them during the afternoon shift—work until closing instead. 

_ There’s something he wants to ask Knuckle and Shoot anyway. _

With the store empty, at least, it gives them more freedom to move around and look for things—and there’s definitely time to order anything that may be back-ordered in time for Halloween. And Ikalgo shifts his weight from one leg to another, eyeing the costumes on display, eyes scanning each row and rack. 

Killua thrums his fingers against the shelf as he walks by slowly, trying to find something that somewhat resembled a cat costume. But the men’s section was bland, if not also filled with hyper-masculine costumes, and Killua sighs despite his efforts. 

“I think I’m gonna just dress in black.” 

“Really?” 

Killua nods, though Ikalgo can’t see, facing the other side of the aisle. “I saw some cat ears and tail accessories in the woman’s section. I’ll just—grab that I guess.”

“Sounds extra creative for someone like you.” 

A playful shove. 

Ikalgo snorts and turns to look at him. “It’s the truth.” 

“It’s  _ smart,”  _ Killua corrects. “I don’t have a lot of money to begin with. Might be smarter to buy some solid-colored clothing that I can re-wear instead of some costume I’ll wear once.” 

_ For the guy he’s so desperately trying to impress, _ Killua’s mind helpfully supplies. 

He keeps that to himself, though. A feeling he can’t quite place rises in his chest. 

“Hmm,” Ikalgo hums, “and what happened to those classical books you mentioned earlier?” 

“Painfully on hold until there’s some money in excess,” Killua says, sighing and ruffling his hair. 

With his thoughts wandering to Gon, his face flusters, and his lips quiver just a little from the excitement bubbling within him. 

With the thought of possibly impressing Gon. 

Killua misses the look Ikalgo gives him in the silence that overtakes them. A quiet, breathing silence, lulled with the overhead speakers lowly playing music. The soft pattering of feet, one step and another: one, two, one, two. And the heater warms them from the outside cold, keeps the biting and dropping temperatures of York New at bay. 

Suddenly, Ikalgo stops, and giggles. 

“This one.” He says, and there’s  _ that _ lilt to his voice, pointing to one of the costumes on the wall. 

The childish lilt he uses when making a joke. 

Eyes scanning the costume title, it takes a moment for his mind to process the name Han Solo. 

Killua sighs, and grins. “There is not one day I can go without hearing about your Star Wars obsession.”

“I have to put up with you spewing poetry and writing stories that rival the classics in quality—I think you can put up with this.” 

They chuckle, and Killua gestures at the costume. 

“God, you’re such a nerd—grab it and try it on, idiot.” 

The grin on Ikalgo’s face widens, and he does a stupid little waddle walk over to the fitting room—that walk where he purposely stiffens his spine and walks all stupid. It’s exaggerated and dumb, but it takes Killua back to his high school years, stuck in the classroom alone during break—watching Ikalgo shimmy inside to stick with him instead. 

The curtain closes. 

Killua’s eyes avert over to the rows of accessories against the wall—to the cat ears, and the elf ears: the vampire teeth and contacts and masks and whiskers. The fake blood. Carefully, alabaster hands reaching out, Killua feels the headband of a pair of black cat ears, and gingerly picks them off the wall. 

“Are you sure you’re not gonna get anything from here?” Ikalgo asks, peeking his head from inside the fitting room. 

A pause. Killua glances over and brings his hand up to signal at the headband. 

“Thinking about this, and the cat tail.” 

Ikalgo nods. “Probably best if you get those here at least—not a wasted trip.” 

“It’s not a wasted trip,” Killua deadpans, “you’re literally buying an entire costume.” 

“And what about it?” The curtain screeches open. “How does it look?” 

Killua looks him up and down, taking in the cheap brown vest and cream-colored shirt: the brown leather holster wrapped around his thigh and boot covers. It’s not a bad costume, and it fits Ikalgo pretty well. Killua presses his lips together and nods. 

“It works.” 

“Just  _ ‘it works’?” _ Ikalgo asks, and there’s a small tinge of disappointment there, Killua can tell. “That’s weak, dude.” 

He sputters. “Well, shit, dude. The hell do you want me to tell you? You look amazing? Stunning? Every guy at the club will stop and stare?” 

Ikalgo whistles, cheeks flustered just slightly. “Well if you say that, there’s gotta be some truth to it, huh?” 

Quick steps closer to Ikalgo, and Killua lightly smacks him with the cardboard hold of the cat ears. 

“You’re annoying,” he says blandly, “and an idiot. It looks great, don’t doubt yourself and get the costume” 

The words come out softer than intended. 

Ikalgo’s eyes dart from Killua away, and then back to Killua, eyes wide and a little surprised.

“Yeah, yeah. Shut your mouth.” He says after a moment, hiding his face behind his sleeve and shutting the curtain again. 

Killua snorts, stepping back to eye the wall for more accessories. 

“So are you getting it, Han Solo?” 

If he eyes the wall a little further to the left, there are some collars there

“Yeah!” A laugh bubbles and teeters at the edge of Ikalgo’s voice. “It’s a whole twenty-five dollars, though…” His voice trails off. 

And Killua hums. “Definitely a pretty penny—looks like you’ll have to hold off on those comic subscriptions.”

A sigh escapes from within the confines of the fitting room, and Ikalgo steps out, holding the costume bag. There’s faux dissatisfaction painting his face—nose scrunched in distaste, brows furrowed deeply and creasing his face. Killua scoffs a laugh, biting away a smile. 

“The shit I do for you.” 

“Your precious comics?” Killua asks, tilting his head to the side, one brow arched in question. “Condemned?” 

Ikalgo presses his lips together, suppressing a smile. “And what else is going to get me through ethical theory and Latin history?” 

Gingerly, Killua reaches for the rather decorative collars against the walls—fingers skimming the leather and lace. 

“Wow,” Killua replies, no malice to his voice, “nice to know I’m dispensable and mean nothing to you in comfort.” 

At that, a laugh rips through Ikalgo’s throat. 

“Yeah, yeah, talk it up. Are you getting anything else?” 

Killua can see the way Ikalgo eyes the collars as well. The way he shifts and squints at the things, like—like they’re something odd. And Killua doesn’t blame him, it’s something extra he doesn’t need to complete the costume. But maybe, just a little, he’d like to wear it to top off the costume. 

“Might…” Killua struggles to find the words, biting his lips and flushing red. 

_ How would Gon react to the collar? _

God, the way his thoughts trail—

_ He should be ashamed. He’s disgusting.  _

His eyes fall, just a little. 

“Just get it.” 

Killua sputters: looking over with wide eyes.

“I—”

“I don’t even want to know,” Ikalgo says, crossing his arms and pressing his weight onto one leg, “but you’ve got that look, where you’re thinking a little too hard. It’s Halloween, dude. Have fun, just get it. It fits the theme you’re going for.” 

“This borders fetish.” 

“It borders  _ cat. _ So shut your mouth, don’t think about it too hard, and get it.” 

One second, two seconds—time bleeds into silence and nothingness and confusion and… Killua isn’t sure if this is even the right thing to do. To be so adamant about impressing Gon, a little bit of disgust towards himself swirls at the pit of his stomach. But Ikalgo was right: it was Halloween, and he was supposed to have fun. 

Eyes looking up, Killua’s fingers skim various collars, before grabbing a black one with a bell in the center of a silver hoop, and turning quickly. 

His cheeks burn. 

_ He’s so embarrassed.  _

Mortified, even.

“Let’s just—” He struggles to say the words. “Let’s just pay and go back to the apartment. I need to get ready for the afternoon shift.” 

At that, Ikalgo snorts and nods. 

Surprisingly, the bakery wasn’t bustling as much as Killua thought it would be this afternoon. 

It’s a sort of calm quiet, where Killua can sit at the register and just scribble some words onto the napkin in front of him—revise some of the prose, look over the prompt showcased on the newspaper beside him. It’s slow, and he’s grateful for that, because there’s something he wants to ask of Shoot and Knuckle—and he’s not sure he could manage if the bakery was at its usual capacity. 

The bell above the door dings, signaling the entrance of a customer, and Killua’s head snaps up, scrambling to cap the pen and set it down. 

It’s an older woman: someone he’s grown to recognize as a regular. She gives him a gentle smile, pointing at the treats within one of the cases, a few pastries, filled with different contents. Her feeble hands, wrought with wrinkles and thin from age, then point to another set of pastries. 

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Mabel,” he says softly, giving her a generous smile, opening the case and reaching for the food she’d pointed towards. “How is your husband doing?” 

“Two of each, please,” she says, “and Richard is doing alright, he’s home resting right now.” 

He nods. “Two  _ pasteles _ , and two  _ flan _ —anything else?” 

She shakes her head. “He really liked that new pastry you had him try, made him smile wide.” 

A chuckle escapes Killua’s lips. “I’m glad he’s doing better, we’ll always be glad to provide those pastries for him.”

Killua places the pastries in a small brown paper bag, folding the lip and placing it on the counter next to the cash register. Alabaster hands work the pricing, inputting the price of the pastries: the register rings, and Killua looks towards the woman again. 

“Your total is two dollars and sixty cents.” 

Slowly, her hands reach into her purse and pull out a worn leather wallet, setting down the bill and some spare change for Killua to exchange. 

He works diligently—he knows he’s fast and efficient. Count the bills, put them into the register in its designated spot, and take out the appropriate change to return to her. The mental math works itself out in his head, crossing seventy-five from sixty for a total of fifteen cents. 

It’s almost an insult that Knuckle had given him a calculator when working at the cash register. 

While the older woman puts the coins away into her pocket, Killua leaves the register and walks out of the employee area onto the customer floor, taking the pastry bag for her and reaching for the front door. 

The appreciative smile she gives is more than enough for him. She takes the bag from his hands as she exits, eyes crinkling into a smile, and Killua can see the lines on her face further stretch.

“Thank you, young man.” 

Killua holds the door for her as she steps up, waving one hand dismissively. “It’s no problem, take care, ma’am.” 

Once she’s onto the sidewalk and walking down Amsterdam Avenue, further and further from the bakery, Killua steps back inside the bakery to Knuckle and Shoot staring fondly at him. They have  _ that _ expression on their face—eyes too soft and gentle and looking at Killua like he’s some saint from above. 

Killua flusters, but swallows his embarrassment. 

“What?” he barks in indignation. 

Shoot merely keeps the smile on his face, but Knuckle knows no bounds, hand reaching for the tufts of Killua’s white hair as Killua approaches and messing it roughly. 

“You’re an absolute softy.”

The blush on Killua’s cheeks deepen.

“Don’t think I haven’t seen you feeding the strays out back,” Killua bites back, “if there’s anyone with a weak heart, it’s you.” 

Knuckle gives a loud laugh. “No one’s been passing to feed them. Someone has gotta take responsibility!” 

“Careful, it looks like the winter cold is seeping into the bakery,” Shoot says, “Your nose is all red.”

“And what about this morning, kid? You took the morning shift off—don’t think we’re not curious.” 

Killua’s breathing gets stuck at his throat, a blush extending up towards his ears. 

“It was nothing,” he mumbles, tugging on a strand of his hair, walking towards the cash register, and taking a seat on the wooden bar stool.

But there’s a knowing grin on their faces, and Killua craves nothing more than to disappear into thin air—embarrassment seeping into the pores of his skin and extending his blush down towards his neck and to the tips of his ears. They stand there, peering at Killua in silence. Waiting. 

Killua opens his mouth. Shuts it. Looks up and meets their gaze.

“Can…” he trails off, “can I have Halloween off? I can make it up another day.” 

Shoot raises a brow. 

“Halloween?” 

A nod. 

“Anyone special you’re seeing?” Knuckle’s words sear Killua’s stomach—flutter his heart. 

Because—

—Because his thoughts trail off to Gon. And, God…

He scrambles to gather his thoughts. 

“My… my friends,” he stumbles over his words, “it’s a party, with my friends.” 

“Your friends?” 

Another nod. 

“Yeah, yeah. Alright, you can have Halloween off—” Knuckle says, “you’re lucky this cake order won’t get itself done, I’ve gotta get back to work.” 

“Ah—” Killua stands. “I was wondering if I could get some help with making cookies?” 

Ah,  _ shit.  _

_ Did he just nonchalantly ask his boss for a favor? Directly after asking for a full day off?  _

Killua’s fingers tremble, and he braces his body against the counter, leaning his stomach into the wood and propping his arms against it to lean forward. 

Knuckle shares a look with Shoot. 

_ Fuck. _

“For the party?” 

Killua nods his head, but his throat feels like sandpaper. 

For a moment, no one speaks. But Knuckle is looking between Killua and Shoot, before shrugging and giving a laugh. 

“Can you handle the register?” He asks Shoot. 

Killua knits his brows in confusion. 

Shoot smiles, already walking towards the register. 

“Today is slow, it’s fine.”

Killua stands awkwardly. 

Knuckle stares him down. 

“C’mon kid, what’re you waiting for?” His expression turns a little more serious. “I ain’t gonna go easy on you. Let’s start baking, not long ‘til it’s Halloween.” 

Baking is disastrously hard. 

Killua learns this  _ quickly. _

He’s decent at cooking meals. You could put him in front of a stove, set some vegetables and spices on the table—maybe some high-quality meats specially ordered—and he could whip up something that would make your mouth water. But cooking sweets? Pastries and tarts? Far from his specialty. 

Regardless of how much he loves them.

And unfortunately, Killua is a perfectionist at heart. 

Which is why when the first batch of cookies left the oven pooling and burnt at the edges an ugly brown, Killua had nearly thrown in the towel. But Knuckle had simply taken the batch and dumped it. 

“You’re gonna need a lot of practice,” he’d said, “and I’m gonna need a lot of patience.” 

Now, two hours later, and not any improvement in sight, Killua sighs, rubbing his face, playing with his hands anxiously. A third batch sits in the oven, cooking to what is  _ hopefully _ perfection, and Knuckle is working on a cake order, decorating peacefully, humming and whistling to himself. 

He looks so cheery—despite the hard stare he’d given Killua when the second batch turned out just as ruined. 

There’s no way he’s  _ not _ burning through the bakery’s supply of ingredients.

Maybe he’s doing something wrong when making them. 

Knuckle had set the ingredients on the table: flour, eggs, sugar, salt, butter, chocolate chips, and baking soda. And he’d given him the right ratios—unless Killua had heard him wrong. But Knuckle hadn’t corrected him when he’d been setting everything into the bowl. 

Fuck. 

The little timer on the shelf starts ringing, and Killua scrambles to open the oven, pulling on the mittens and reaching for the pan within the confines of heat. 

This time, the cookies come out the right size—the right color—but it’s all cracked and lumpy. An ugly texture, and Killua sets the pan on the counter, taking off the mittens and pressing his hands against the edge of the counter and looking down. He lets out a sigh. 

He hears a piping bag set against the counter. 

Footsteps approach him. 

“You beat the eggs too much,” Knuckle says.

He picks up a cookie, tapping it against the pan. It crumbles slightly. 

Killua chews on his lip as Knuckle takes a bite. 

“It doesn’t taste bad at all,” he says after a moment. “If anything, your proportions are great. The consistency is nice. But you’re too eager to get this too-right. You have to find what works for you, kid.” 

Killua stares at him in disbelief. 

“You gave me the instructions and I still messed it up somehow,” Killua supplies dryly. 

Knuckle nods. “Yeah, you messed up, but it’s practice. Everything takes time to learn, so don’t take it too hard.”

The words of encouragement ring true in Killua’s head—he knows Knuckle is right, but toxic perfectionism is known well, and Killua knows it better than he knows himself. He can’t bake these cookies, it’s a comment on his ability. But it’s also a comment on the situation. 

_ He’s _ not perfect.

_ He’s  _ broken. 

There’s something wrong with him; he’s different from normal people. 

_ That’s how his father had put it.  _

A stillness fills the air. Killua continues to run the thoughts in his head and loses himself in the process. There’s some shame bubbling at the pit of his stomach, rising just like acid—it chokes his lungs, the longer he even entertains the thought. 

His shoulders slump, mouth pressing into a straight line.

“Hey.” 

There’s a certain weight to Knuckle’s words, when he rests his hand on Killua’s shoulder. For a moment, his fingers squeeze Killua’s skin, and he can feel the pads of Knuckle’s fingers dig in reassuringly, a warmth that anchors him from the thoughts raging in his head. 

“Don’t worry about it, kid.” 

With a fragmented mind, Killua sucks in a breath and nods, leaning forward to grab another metal bowl. 

There are clothes  _ everywhere. _

The door to Killua’s bedroom is wide open, and he’s scrambling around—grabbing the scissors from the kitchen drawer and snipping off the price tag. Ikalgo is standing to the side, looking lost, staring at their burned batch of cookies. He grimaces as Killua slams down the scissors and pulls the shirt over his head. 

“Why did we forget the cookies were in the oven?” he says, rushing back into his bedroom. 

Ikalgo follows Killua to his room, leaning against the door frame. “We were getting dressed—”

“—What are we going to do now? I can’t show up cookieless.” 

A muffled snort.

“Ikalgo,” Killua says, eyes sharp, “not funny.”

Ikalgo’s lips are pressed into a thin line, trying to contain his laughter. “It’s a little funny.” 

Killua huffs, fingers gripping the leather pants, feeling the material. He shifts from one leg to another anxiously, biting his lip. He stomps on the feeling of playing with his bangs, mentally reminding himself that his hair is already blow-dried and perfect. 

“Seriously—I promised I’d show up with sweets.” 

Ikalgo looks at him. “We can stop at some ma’ and pa’ shop near the nightclub; it’s no biggie, dude.”

Despite his best efforts, a petulant groan escapes Killua’s lips, “It’s gonna be obvious that I didn’t make the cookies. And it’s twenty-five to ten, we’re late.” 

He pauses. 

“Can you—” Killua gestures vaguely, struggling to make eye contact, “Can you turn around?” 

Ikalgo jumps, stammering and nodding his head, hand reaching out for the doorknob and closing it slightly. 

Quickly, Killua tugs off his sweatpants and pulls on the leather pants, practically hopping around the room in them—the material struggles to get past the thickness of his thighs, the firm muscle makes it difficult to slide up, and Killua finds himself pinching certain parts of the pants upwards to adjust it minutely. 

Alabaster fingers reach for the cat ears sitting on the bed; Killua turns towards the mirror, carefully placing the ears atop his head, observing how the black contrasts with the white of his hair and the paleness of his skin. The turtleneck is cropped, and exposes a sliver of his stomach—his abdomen, defined—and he feels a little embarrassed knowing Gon will see him in this.

_ Stop. _

Killua shakes the thoughts from his head, biting away the disgust and refutation that threatens to run through him. 

He won’t ruin a fun night over his… inability to be comfortable with himself. 

The cat tail wraps around his waist with a black belt, practically invisible with the black of the leather pants. He looks at himself in the mirror—turning one way, then the other. Eyes his posture and stance, the way he looks. The costume doesn’t look terrible, all things considered.

Killua grabs the collar, opening the door to his bedroom, and Ikalgo turns quickly to look at him before a knock resonates at the front door. 

A frown crosses Killua’s features. 

Ikalgo and he share a look. 

“Expecting someone?” Killua asks. 

Ikalgo shakes his head. Killua walks towards the door, peering into the peephole, surprised to see Knuckle and Shoot at their front door. Nimble fingers set the collar on the bookshelf, undoing the lock and opening the door. 

_ Oh, oh, God.  _

Knuckle grins wide, lifting a plastic bag of cookies, and Shoot gives a smile, showing an assortment of pastries in another plastic bag. Succor floods Killua’s body in a way he’s never known before—not even comparing to when he snuck the men’s magazine into his bedroom for the first time, past his father and older brothers. 

And Killua doesn’t miss the way their hands had undone from their grasp, now limp beside their sides, fingers nearly brushing, when Killua had opened the door. 

“Brought some sweets!” Knuckle says, handing them over to Killua. 

“Hope that’s alright,” Shoot says, “We checked your application for your address to drop these by on our way home.”

Killua gives a wet laugh of relief. “Thanks—thank you. I burned tonight’s cookies, wasn’t paying attention to the batch while getting ready. I thought I’d have to stop at a family bakery for something.” 

“Don’t worry about it kid,” Knuckle says, “go have fun at the party with your  _ friends.” _

Knuckle winks at him and Killua can feel a blush run up his cheeks embarrassingly quickly. He stammers, struggling to find the words. Shoot holds a laugh, pressing his lips together to contain his own mirth. 

“We have to head home,” Shoot says, “Don’t want to keep you, you look great, go have fun, Killua.” 

Instantly, Killua’s confidence in his costume heightens, and he nods, unable to conceal the wide smile that spreads on his face, a hum forming at the back of his throat. 

“Be safe getting home.” 

The door shuts, and Killua grabs the collar once again after setting down the pastries carefully. He fiddles with the clasp, struggling to loop the circle into the chain. And maybe it’s because he’s thinking a little too hard—thoughts trailing to Shoot and Knuckle. 

_ Maybe his prior thoughts hadn’t been too far-fetched.  _

_ Maybe he wasn’t reading too far into the situation.  _

_ Were… Shoot and Knuckle  _ together? 

“Need some help?” Ikalgo asks, and Killua nods, pulled from his thoughts. 

Careful hands take the collar and efficiently clip it around his neck within seconds. It feels a little tight around his neck—but it’s not completely uncomfortable. Killua can feel the material dig into his skin if he swallows too deeply, flexing his sternohyoid muscle. 

But it’s bearable. That’s what’s important. 

Killua turns, grinning. 

“Do I look good?” 

Ikalgo's eyes dart away, before looking him up and down.

“Yeah.” 

The grin on Killua’s face widens. 

“You look great too, c’mon, let’s get going idiot, we’re seriously late.” 

Despite the sputter that leaves Ikalgo’s lips, he grabs one of the bags and fumbles with the keys, while Killua reaches for the other bag of pastries. Ikalgo pats his back pocket for his wallet before nodding, and without another thought, they’re stepping outside, locking the door, and making their way towards the staircase.

_ Tonight is going to be fun.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading Chapter Four of "You Take My Breath Away"!
> 
> Hello everyone! This is a Christmas/Holiday gift from me to you. I apologize for the long gaps in updates—everything has been hectic, and the semester has finally concluded, so I'm on break until next month. I'll try my best to get another chapter out before New Years, as an additional gift to all of you: I'm very thankful that you all read my fics and enjoy them, so I wanted to give you all more to read. 
> 
> That being said—Killua sure is making the effort to dress nicely for Gon tonight, I wonder what he expects from the situation ;D Ikalgo is a supportive best friend, as always. And Shoot and Knuckle are so sweet, I adore writing them, though I worry their characters are a little harder to place. I'm really excited to continue writing this story, my motivation for writing Killugon continues to rises the more I see people enjoy my work—it really does me a lot to me that you guys take these so personally and that they brighten your days!!
> 
> Don't forget to leave a comment and kudos! I'm excited about what you think, and what you think will happen in the following chapters, and they keep the motivation going <3 
> 
> I have a Twitter, so yell at me on there: [@peachiinari](https://www.twitter.com/peachiinari)  
> Due to popular demand, I've made a tumblr: [@peachiinari](https://www.peachiinari.tumblr.com)


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Yeah,” Killua breathes, “I’m having a lot of fun. You?” 
> 
> Gon’s movements slow, the beat of the music noise to Killua's ears, and Killua drops his arms from around Gon’s waist before he turns around to fully face Killua. 
> 
> His eyes are searching Killua’s, and Killua can feel the heat simmer and travel down his spine. The flames lick at his bones, trickling down further and further, and his eyes widen, gripping his hands by his sides, lips parting. Gon’s eyes look so honest.
> 
> “This is the most fun I’ve had in a long time.” He says slowly. 

Sugar Hill is more populated now than ever—with most of the apartment lights on and fixed a steady yellow—Halloween decorations against brick walls and in front of apartment patches of greenery. It’s a little later into the night, nearly nine-fifty, and there are plenty of kids wandering the streets in costumes with their parents, laughing loudly and holding bags of candy. 

Killua smiles, waving at one of the girls in a ballerina costume, before grabbing Ikalgo’s wrist and pulling him closer towards the approaching subway station on St. Nicholas Avenue. 

He’s sure they look ridiculous—two grown men decked in Halloween costumes, one a poor rendition of a black cat, the other Han Solo—there’s no better image. But if there’s one thing that Killua has learned about York New, it’s that no one  _ really _ cares about what you wear, or really  _ about  _ you in general. 

Everyone is a passerby. 

They wait for their train, walking past some of the homeless men, keeping their gazes ahead towards the bricked walls and dirty floors. For just a moment, Killua nods his head in acknowledgment towards one of the Guardian Angel volunteers patrolling the terminal hallways.

And, God—the train is taking longer than it should. 

Killua taps his foot impatiently, gnawing on his lip.

The bell on his collar continues to ring quietly with his movements. 

Ikalgo shakes his wrist, checking his silver watch. 

“It’s late,” Killua says without prompt, “what time is it?”

“Nine-fifty-seven.” 

A groan escapes Killua’s lips. 

“Fuck.” 

“There’s nothing we can do about it—we missed the nine-forty-five train,” Ikalgo says, “so we have to wait for this train.” 

Killua’s fingers tap anxiously against his leg, looking around. 

And then there’s the humming of the train on the tracks that Killua can hear, and he’s quickly stepping forward, pulling Ikalgo with him in a hurry. 

“C’mon, c’mon, it’s here.” 

“Well, shit, it isn’t going anywhere the moment it stops.” Ikalgo laughs, letting Killua string him along. 

The wait time isn’t terrible, the train stops and leaves after a mere three minutes—doors sliding open for just thirty seconds, before shutting again. And so late into the night, the car isn’t too filled, but regardless, Killua stays standing, hand gripping the pole. 

Ikalgo, on the other hand, sits and sets down the pastries in the seat beside him, staring at Killua. 

“We’re not late.” 

“I feel like we’re late.”

His fingers tap against the pole impatiently.

“It’s barely ten O-five,” Ikalgo deadpans, crossing his arms. 

A huff escapes Killua’s lips. 

Heaven’s Nightclub isn’t that far either, and they’re there before they know it, in front of the nightclub—this time with a longer line than usual. More than twenty people are waiting outside, everyone dressed in some variation of a costume. Killua feels a little less ridiculous, seeing them all dressed as well. 

When they’re at the front of the line, the bodyguard speaks: 

“You know the fee.” 

He’s staring at Killua.

“Three dollars,” Killua replies easily. 

The bodyguard nods and looks him up and down. 

“I see you didn’t take my advice from last time.” There’s a knowing smile on his lips, and he steps aside to let them in. “It’s nice to see familiar faces every once in a while.”

Killua, despite the blush that covers his cheeks, gives a light-hearted stare—grabbing Ikalgo’s wrist and pulling him inside. As the front door behind them shuts, Killua can hear the bodyguards' boisterous laugh, heavy and loud. Ikalgo turns to Killua. 

“A regular, hm?” 

“I don’t want to hear it.” 

Already from where they stand, Killua can hear the music blasting from inside the club—and it doesn’t escape him that  _ Hungry Like the Wolf  _ is playing over the stereo. There are barely any coats on the rack, and Killua walks straight towards the door, knowing exactly where he has to go. 

Ikalgo stumbles but keeps up regardless.

Flashing lights, Halloween decorations. Smoke pools the ground, and it’s hazy in a way that forces his eyes to work just a little harder.

There are so many people on the dance floor. Dancing, chatting. Sharing drinks and glancing at others. 

Killua looks around. 

Gon. 

His eyes meet Gon’s form; he’s sitting at the very center of the bar, legs crossed, back leaning against the bar, surrounded by men. There’s a small, handheld mirror in Gon’s hand, and he’s applying lipstick onto his lips slowly, mouth open, eyes looking down. Killua feels his heart thud in his chest, his stomach fluttering. 

Slowly, slowly—Gon’s head turns towards Killua’s direction. 

And their eyes meet. 

A sultry smile graces Gon’s lips, and he’s leaning forward from against the bar. 

And all at once, Killua’s heart seems to skip a beat, breath lodging at his throat, lungs ceasing their function.

The music, the mood—the atmosphere. Killua zeros in on Gon, and Gon seems to do the same. 

He says something to the men surrounding him, Killua knows, because the men disperse fast enough, pulling away from him with expressions ranging from disappointment to annoyance. Killua finds that he really doesn’t care  _ what _ they think or feel at this moment.

The closer Killua gets, the better Gon looks—fuschia eyeshadow, with a black fade towards the corner of his eyes. Black lipstick, gold coloring the inner corner of his eyes, highlight on his cheekbones, a crescent moon painted on his forehead. He looks  _ good;  _ a choker around his neck, a black mesh shirt against his skin and leather pants tight against his legs. 

_ Is he wearing a torso corset?  _

Killua’s mouth runs dry.

Their eyes never once lose focus, until Killua is in front of Gon, and Gon looks him up and down, taking in every bit of the costume—or lack-there-of. Killua isn’t sure if what he’s wearing counts, but he hopes it’s plenty to impress Gon. Impress him—he’s just a little shameless, and embarrassed. 

Over the music, Killua can barely hear the twinkle of Gon’s laugh, a more sincere smile dancing on his lips. 

“I was joking about the cat costume, darling,” he says, “but if you’re gonna play the part, you need this.” 

Gon reaches for the lipstick set on the bar counter, uncapping it, and leans closer on his stool, hands reaching up to grab Killua’s jaw. Hazel stares into ocean blue. Gon is so close, Killua can feel him breathe out slowly. Heat rises on his cheeks, and Gon turns his jaw, drawing three lines on each cheek, and a dot on his nose. 

_ With his own lipstick. _

And then Gon is leaning back, eyes drifting down to the collar around KIllua’s neck, mirth dancing in his eyes before he flicks the bell. 

It gives a little ring.

“Cute.” 

Killua opens his mouth—he wants to say how good Gon looks, too, but Gon is looking past Killua towards Ikalgo. 

“Who’s this?”

Quickly, Killua steps aside with a grin. 

“This is Ikalgo, my best friend. Thought it’d be nice to bring him along.” 

“Brought food too,” Gon jokes, eyeing the bags. 

“It’s nice to meet you.” There’s a sincere smile on Ikalgo’s face. 

A nod. “The more the merrier—glad you brought a friend.” 

Gon taps the wooden counter with a manicured nail painted a pretty fuschia that matches the eyeshadow on his lids. 

“You can set the pastries down here, Leorio will take care of it.” He looks over at them. “I made the finger snacks as promised.” 

“Did you now?”

Gon hums. “Kurapika went to grab some to snack on, he should—”

A plate gets set beside Gon, and they look over to find Kurapika smiling, tucking a strand of blond hair behind his ear, a ruby red earring dangling. 

“The first batch is almost gone,” Kurapika says, “looks like they’re popular.” 

Gon grins, grabbing the plate and offering it to Ikalgo. He grabs one and then Gon is offering the plate to Killua. 

“What do you think?” 

Alabaster hands reach for the mummy dogs, inspecting the bread wrapping around the hotdog. 

“Looks like a newborn baby,” Killua says. 

Gon’s fingers touch his shoulder, pushing him softly in jest, “Shut your mouth.”

A grin laces Killua’s lips. “Really? Don’t want to hear how exquisite your baking is?” 

“You have to taste it first, darling.” 

Without wasting another second, Killua takes a bite of the mummy dog, chewing it carefully, and yeah—it tastes good. A lot better than he thought it would; it’s the type of taste that would have you itching to reach for another one on the plate.

“So?” Gon asks, there’s a twinkle in his eye. “How’s it taste?” 

Killua takes a moment to finish chewing, swallowing down the bite. 

“This tastes amazing,” he starts, “—phenomenal, better than the five-star meals I’ve had all my life.” 

Gon pouts, cheeks puffing in indignance and whining. “I worked hard on that, darling. You gonna shame my hard work like that?”

Killua’s eyes dart from Gon’s cheeks down towards his lips, and his cheeks flush a timid red, feeling warm under the flashing lights. 

“My eyes are up here.” There’s a lilt to his voice.

Back up—Killua’s eyes shoot up to meet Gon’s again, heart thudding in the confines of his chest. 

“I really did mean it—but I don’t mind indulging your apparent praise kink. You did great.” 

_ Oh, God.  _

_ Did he just say that? _

Despite the confident words, Killua wants to dig a hole in the ground and disappear. 

And Gon’s eyes widen slightly, a smile curling onto his features. 

“That’s bold of you, darling.” He turns towards Ikalgo. “But since you’re being mean—Ikalgo, hun, why don’t you have more.” 

Ikalgo takes another mummy dog, grinning and taking a bite.

“Tastes better than Killua’s cooking.”

Killua sputters. “I’m the one who cooks for the both of us, I’ll let you starve!” 

Gon laughs, “My winning streak stays strong.” 

“You can’t even compare cooking to baking.” 

“Hey, kids,” Leorio’s voice comes out from the back of the bar, holding a plate of drinks. “I bring you, our Halloween Special: Bradycardia.” 

Kurapika deadpans, crossing his arms. “That’s a terrible name.” 

Leorio squints at him, a quiet squabble going on between them. 

“I know you’re smarter than this, call it Tomb Raiser.” 

“I go to medical school for this.” 

Kurapika scoffs, resting his elbow on the bar, propping his chin against his palm. 

“To kill potential patients? To be the reason they show up at the emergency room?”

A laugh passes around the entire group. 

Ikalgo leans closer to the bar. “What’s in it?” 

A mischievous grin forms on Leorio’s face. 

“Sangria lemonade with black charcoal, rum, vodka, and white wine—served in a tall glass, hence the name.” 

“Can I have some?” Gon asks, already leaning forward, and Leorio’s reflexes are quick, pulling the mixture away from his reach. 

“ _Aht!_ Absolute not. I have to drive you home, God forbid your aunt sees you out of it with me.” 

That same cute pout comes onto Gon’s face again—God, he knows how to use his expressions to his advantage. It makes Killua’s heart stutter pathetically and he’s not even the one the look is directed to. 

It takes a moment, before Leorio grumbles and gives in, grabbing a shot glass and pouring not even a tenth of the drink. He slides it across the table, and Gon takes it eagerly, taking a sip. 

“I’m of legal drinking age, it’s not that big of a deal.” 

“Yeah, sure,” Leorio says, handing another patron a tall glass of the mix. “That’ll change soon, with the highway laws forcing the state to higher the drinking age requirement, so enjoy the luxury while you can, brat.” 

Leorio turns to Killua and Ikalgo. “Want a drink?” 

Killua shakes his head, waving his hands dismissively. The smell of the drink already makes him dizzy as is, and he’s never been one of a drink in the first place. 

“No, it’s fine,” he chuckles, “I prefer life.” 

Ikalgo’s expression nearly mirrors Killua’s own, and grimaces with a smile. Leorio eyes him, looks at the group, before setting aside a tall glass. 

Gon takes another sip of his shot glass, lips staining the clear glass—Killua can’t help stare—and the music is fading into a new song, one that they can’t hear for a moment before a synthesizer is hitting two beats, and Gon is quickly putting down his shot glass, pushing off the bar stool with a grin. 

His tanned fingers reach for Killua’s wrist, gently wrapping around the skin there. The touch warms him, makes his heart flutter. 

“We need to get on the dance floor.” 

Killua’s eyes widen.

“The dance floor?”

_ Thriller  _ is blasting on the nightclub speakers, and there’s already a crowd forming on the dancefloor, everyone is in sync, following the beats. The lights flicker colors, a new wave of smoke forming, 

“C’mon!” Gon laughs, “Kurapika, Ikalgo—we’ll miss it.” 

Gon is ushering them to the dancefloor, and Killua can’t focus on anything except the touch of Gon’s hand slowly sliding into his own grip, fingers dimpling the skin there. The touch is fleeting before Gon pulls away, taking his spot on the dance floor beside Kurapika. 

Everyone is dancing so eagerly to Michael Jackson—Killua gives a loud laugh at Gon and Kurapika’s confident movements, he finds it hard to follow along while laughing. Gon is singing at the top of his lungs, and Kurapika joins with the rest of the crowd chanting. 

Everything is so wild. 

Strobe lights and spotlights run in different directions. Confetti seems to fall from the ceiling.

Gon is coming forward, fingers skimming Killua’s shoulder.

“C’mon, dance!” He grins, “The chorus is coming!” 

Killua swallows down his embarrassment at just how ridiculous the actual dance is, and laughs, nodding. 

Ikalgo and Killua join in with a little more vigor to their movements, following the flow of the chorus—hands coming up and moving forward. The joined footsteps of the crowd are loud thuds with so many people joining in, and laughter and chatter are coming from every direction, whether it’s the group singing, or someone talking to another over the loud bass of the music.

_ This is fun. _

They’re surrounded by people in costumes—men and women alike, and they’re all keeping up with the dance. 

The narrator's voice in the song begins, signaling the coming-end of the song. The dancing dies down, going from wild movements to more subdued ones, a sway of hips rather than the slatted choreography. And once the song fully closes, people abandon the dancefloor, going back to the bar or to the small tables around the dance floor to chat. 

Killua watches as Ikalgo and Kurapika make their way back to the bar, and he thinks for the moment that he might join them too—

—Another synthesizer starts playing, a familiar pick up, and  _ Sweet Dreams _ is coming onto the speakers with a force that has Killua turning to Gon to dance. Gon grins at him, features a little surprised, but all the more pleased, letting himself get a little closer. Killua smiles back. 

Their hips sway to the beat of the music, and Gon speaks up. 

“I feel so bad—Ikalgo looked miserable.” 

They both glance over at the bar, where Ikalgo sits with Kurapika and Leorio. He’s taking a swing of the Bradycardia concoction Leorio made.

“It’s okay,” Killua says, smile widening. “He’s just out of his comfort zone, kinda. It’s been a while since either of us partied, and well, you just had him dance Thriller in a room full of other men.” 

They share a laugh.

Gon comes closer, arms rising and hands coming up to card through the cat ears atop Killua’s head, the pads of his thumbs fingering the tufts of faux black fur, adjusting their position on his hair. His eyes are focused on the ears; Killua assumes they might’ve gotten a little out of place with the wild dancing earlier. 

And slowly, Gon’s eyes drop to Killua’s eyes. 

“And you?” Gon asks, after a beat of silence, “Do you care that I might’ve embarrassed you with the other men in the club?” 

The response is instant, with zero hesitation.

“No, I don’t care about them.” 

Another song starts, and in the flashing of the lights, Killua can see the way Gon’s jaw slacks just a little, and his eyes widen, before he gains control and schools it back into something more confident. He’s leaning forward, so close—arms resting on Killua’s shoulders and lips close to Killua’s ear. 

“In that case—” he whispers, turning quickly, and now their new position is incredibly compromising and embarrassing. 

Killua shouldn’t love it as much as he does. 

Gon’s back is to Killua’s front, and Gon is reaching back, finding Killua’s hands and placing them on his waist, against the rough material of the corset. And Killua keeps his grasp light—not too firm, not too firm, he repeats in his head like a mantra. Don’t be rough—don’t be too much. 

Another pulse of smoke fills the dancefloor.

“Is this okay?” Killua whispers, breathless, fingers twitching from the unsureness of it all. 

More than he would like, the thoughts consume him so easily. 

When he’s with Gon, there’s a level of infatuation, but at the same, maybe an even stronger feeling of repulsion fills him—for feeling this way. Feeling this way about another man. Feeling  _ any _ way about another man.

For every bit of happy Gon makes him in these fleeting moments, the thoughts of disgust consume him twice as hard, leaving him feeling upset.

Guilty, perhaps. Stressed out in every sense of the word.

_ Maybe he wants reaffirmation. _

“Yeah, “Gon says, looking back at Killua, just a little, and the strobe lights paint his skin so prettily. “You can hold me a little tighter, darling. I won’t break.” 

Killua’s heart thuds and the oxygen feels punched from his lungs, fingers tightening their grip around Gon’s waist by just an inch. They continue to sway together, and the reaffirmation of Gon’s words are enough to soothe him for the moment. From his position behind Gon, he can see the light sheen of sweat coating his skin—nape glossy. 

Gon hums. “Are you having fun tonight?” 

“Yeah,” Killua breathes, “I’m having a lot of fun. You?” 

Gon’s movements slow, the beat of the music noise to Killua's ears, and Killua drops his arms from around Gon’s waist before he turns around to fully face Killua. 

His eyes are searching Killua’s, and Killua can feel the heat simmer and travel down his spine. The flames lick at his bones, trickling down further and further, and his eyes widen, gripping his hands by his sides, lips parting. Gon’s eyes look so honest.

“This is the most fun I’ve had in a long time.” He says slowly. 

So slow, so honest. 

Killua’s cheeks redden. 

He opens his mouth, and shuts it, and opens it again. 

_ He shouldn’t indulge in these things.  _

Killua bites back the thought, shoving it to the back of his head, and gives a smile. 

The tension shatters when a new song shuffles onto the stereo, and Gon grips Killua’s shoulders with a loud laugh, pressing his forehead against the space between Killua’s shoulder and neck, exhaling a trembling, arms resting upon Killua’s shoulders. 

“I can’t,” Gon says, “I can’t dance to this, I never can.” 

A grin laces Killua’s lips. “You made me dance to  _ Thriller _ , so you have to stay for this.”

“Who knew you could be so mean.” He pulls away. “If I would’ve known you’d have me dance to Rockwell’s debut single, I would’ve reconsidered.” 

“Well,” Killua slows his swaying, “want to go take a seat then?” 

Gon hums. “I wouldn’t be opposed, darling.” 

Gon’s hands are reaching out, grabbing Killua’s wrist and pulling him back towards the bar, where Ikalgo and Kurapika sit. They’re chatting about something—and Ikalgo is taking small sips of his drink, Killua can see the alcohol mix about halfway done. 

When Gon and Killua take a seat beside them, Leorio speaks up. 

“We were just talking about trick-or-treating and how fun it used to be to go out and get free candy as kids.” 

“Reminiscing, are we?” Gon asks, resting his forearms on the countertop. 

Leorio laughs. “Had to find something to talk about while you two were out there dancing.” 

Killua blushes, averting his gaze. 

“I was just telling Leorio about the time when my family silly-stringed a stranger’s door for not giving us candy,” Kurapika says. 

“I remember doing something similar,” Gon’s voice is a little far off, wistful in a way, cheek propped against his palm. The flashing lights paint his skin beautiful hues, and even like this, his eyes distant, lost in a memory—Gon is stunning. “We would knock on doors and no one would give us candy because we weren’t dressed. I miss those times.”

Silence.

Kurapika gives a chuckle. “It seems we all miss those times. Is there anything you ever did, Killua?” 

A grimace makes its way onto Killua’s face.

“No, I’ve never gone out, my family was too religious and kept me studying. They saw it as a distraction.” 

Gon gasps and even Kurapika looks a little shocked. 

“There’s no way—” he says, “—there’s no way you haven’t trick-or-treated before.” Gon looks up at the clock on the wall. “It’s freshly midnight, c’mon.”

“C’mon?” Killua asks, furrowing his brows in confusion. 

“Yes!” Gon says, standing from the stool. “We’re going out for candy. Kurapika, Leorio?” 

Leorio looks between Gon and the patrons. “I’m not against it. We just need someone to cover my shift.” 

Kurapika nods. “I'm fine with it.”

It’s an intriguing idea to think over—and alluring, at that. Trick-or-treating, it was one of those things Killua had always wanted to do, but couldn’t, and now the opportunity is presenting itself in a perfectly-wrapped bow. Killua bites down a smile, turning to Ikalgo. 

“What do you say?”

Ikalgo smiles. “I’m down for it.” 

A grin settles on Gon’s face. “That settles it, looks like we’re taking Killua’s Halloween virginity.” 

In hindsight, maybe he should’ve worn something that covered up a little more. 

Killua is no stranger to the cold or its biting temperatures, but walking the blocks of Sugar Hill in a cropped turtleneck and leather pants certainly doesn’t keep him warm at all. Leorio had thrown at Gon his coat, and the older man had wrapped himself in it almost immediately, sighing contently. Killua, on the other hand, had nothing of the sort. 

They walked down the street of brownstone homes, their feet pattering against the cement. They had already passed a few houses, collecting leftover, unpopular candies in some random bags Leorio snagged from the nightclub. It’s funny—somehow Kurapika, Ikalgo, and Leorio are leading, chatting loudly about how exciting this all was, and Killua is left trailing behind, alone with Gon. 

Gon is beside him, steps confident, but he’s not really  _ there. _

It’s quiet in a way he wasn’t expecting. 

“You alright?” 

Gon looks over, humming in question. Killua furrows his brows.

“I asked if you were alright,” he repeats. 

A nod. “‘M just reminiscing, darling.” 

Killua wonders what about. He stares forward again.

The streets aren’t too crowded anymore. There are barely any homes with the porch lights on—barely any with the indoor lights on to begin with—and Killua isn’t so surprised. They decided this so late into the night, and then there’s the fact that it’s technically November first… most people are probably already in bed.

_ And yet, Killua is here.  _

“Thanks,” Killua starts, struggling to find the words. His fingers twitch. “Thanks for doing this.” 

Gon stares at him, pausing for a moment before speaking. “You don’t have anything to thank me for, it’s something everyone should do at least once—for the sake of memories.”

Killua gives a quiet chuckle. “We should do it again next year, for the sake of memories.” 

Gon’s previous quietness melts away, lightening up.

“Thinking big already?” There’s a grin twitching onto Gon’s face, mirth dancing in his eyes. “That’s a whole year of planning in advance.”

Killua gestures vaguely with his hands, smile widening. “Can’t rain check it if it’s been pending for a year, now can you?” 

Gon laughs. “How about we move the planning, darling?” 

A frown creases Killua’s brows, and he opens his mouth to ask just  _ what _ Gon means, but Gon speaks up. 

“I mean,” he says, head tilting to the side, grin lacing his lips. “Show me what a normal night out for you is, some other time. I don’t think the nightclub suits your vibe.”

It’s embarrassing how quickly Killua flusters. He rubs his neck abashedly, alabaster hands quivering slightly. Killua is almost tempted to play with a piece of his hair, but opts to thrum his fingers on his nape instead. 

“I don’t think you’re prepared for my types of nights.” He mumbles, before looking over at Gon.

Hazel eyes meet ocean blue. 

They don’t disconnect. 

“I think you underestimate me, darling.” 

There’s a charged energy in the air that runs through them. 

“Hey, guys!” Leorio’s voice rings in the static noise of the neighborhood. He’s turned, staring at them expectantly, and Kurapika’s hand smacks his forearm; he winces, lowering his voice. “This house has their lights on, let’s see if they have anything still!” 

It’s a little silly how they all huddle together quickly, quick to open the small iron gate and stand on the porch. Leorio knocks thrice on the door, standing idly. The second's tick by. The silence between them rings. Between the neighborhood. Even inside the home.

It's palpable. And awkward. 

“Maybe they’re asleep,” Ikalgo says, already stepping back, but Leorio shakes his head. 

“I hear someone coming.” 

The door opens slowly, a gentle glow of warm light escaping. 

And Killua’s eyes widen, surprise coloring his features. 

“Mrs. Mabel?” 

The old lady peers past Leorio, staring at Killua. She makes a noise of recognition, nodding her head and laughing. 

“Having fun with your friends, young man?” 

Killua flusters in embarrassment but nods all the same. 

“We’re trick-or-treating. Any chance this will be a treat and not a trick?” 

From behind her, she pulls out her hand and reveals a big bowl of candy, shaking it a little in its reveal. 

“It’s a treat, dearie.” She hands the bowl to Leorio. “Richard went to the store a few nights ago and bought lots of bags for the kids. You kids can go ahead and take it all, I don’t think anyone else is coming tonight.” 

Leorio bows his head appreciatively. “Thank you, ma’am.” 

She waves him off, chuckling. “It’s nothing, this young man is always helping me with my orders at the bakery. I’d like to give back. Be safe, boys.” 

It’s when they’re turning and leaving the front porch that Killua spins around, and Mrs. Mabel is still standing at the door, making sure they exit safely, and his heart warms. A smile splays onto his features, eyes crinkling.

“Mrs. Mabel,” Killua starts, “you can pass by the bakery anytime for some free sweets, on me.” 

“Oh no, I couldn’t—” She says, but Killua shakes his head.

“I know Richard likes them a lot. Think of it as, you know,” he gestures, “a thank you.” 

Her expression melts, a gentle smile wrinkling her features. And her eyes shine a bright blue, despite the lines and sagging of her skin, the hyperpigmentation of her skin and the greying of her hair. 

“Oh, alright.” 

She waves goodbye, and Killua waves back.

When Killua turns back to catch up with the group on the sidewalk, Gon’s gaze is fixed onto him. His expression is unreadable, but Killua doesn’t think much of it, closing the gate and reaching over to lock the bar into place. The paint is chipping, revealing the rusted iron underneath.

“Are we going to keep going at this?” Ikalgo asks, and Killua shrugs. 

“Whatever the group wants to do,” he says. 

“I have work in the morning,” Gon sighs, rolling his eyes, “Morning shift.”

“And I’ve got clinical rotations tomorrow, we’re already out pretty late.” Leorio looks at his watch. “It’s almost two in the morning. I’m the designated taxi, so you two need a ride?” 

Ikalgo shakes his head. “We live pretty close in the area, just a few blocks down. We’re good.” 

Leorio nods. 

“We’ll split ways here then,” Kurapika adds, and they all nod. 

Killua is standing beside Ikalgo, and Gon is eyeing him. Baiting him for something. It clicks almost immediately.

“Gon,” he says, “November ninth. I’ll meet you at the club, you remember?” 

A smile graces his lips, eyes becoming crescents, a single dimple showing. “I remember, darling.” 

Not even the loud rustling of the frigid night air could hide the erratic beating of Killua’s heart. 

An excited laugh threatens to tumble past his lips as they turn away and go their separate ways, Killua’s steps light beside Ikalgo’s. This is nice. This is really, really nice. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading Chapter Five of "You Take My Breath Away"!
> 
> Hi everyone :D This comes as a surprise; I promised two updates, one for Christmas and New Years respectively, but got a spur to write, and decided to drop two chapters for Christmas instead (4 and 5). New Years will also have a chapter, hopefully!! So everyone gets fed three chapters, to make up for the lack of work from me recently. 
> 
> This chapter had a lot of things going on >:D Lots of development between Gon and Kil, surprise surprise. More on that later. I know I promised a few Gon POV chapters, which are coming! Don't worry, it's planned and slatted into our outline!! But that's later on in the story; we'll learn more about Gon and who he is. Also, there was supposed to be a moment where Gon grabs the ring of Killua's collar and tugs it while they're dancing alone, but we forget to add it in—so add it to your imagination and go wild. Gon loves to fluster poor Kil.
> 
> Don't forget to leave a comment and kudos—they do wonders to my motivation! I'm looking forward to everyone's thoughts. 
> 
> I have a Twitter, so yell at me on there: [@peachiinari](https://www.twitter.com/peachiinari)  
> Due to popular demand, I've made a tumblr: [@peachiinari](https://www.peachiinari.tumblr.com)


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He sighs to himself, resting his hands on his hips, leaning his head down, and then craning it up for a breath. 
> 
> Gon wasn’t like the other guys. 
> 
> Gon was more than that.
> 
> "You walk in, and my heart beats different; you’ve got something they don’t."

_ You’re different.  _

No, no—that doesn’t really capture it. 

_ The sun can’t compare to the shine you give. _

Wrong, utterly wrong. It doesn’t flow right. 

Killua muffles a groan of frustration, furrowing his eyebrows and lowering his head until it’s against the cold surface of the kitchen table. There’s another submission to be made; he hadn’t heard back from his initial submission, a few weeks ago, and that was alright. It’s been a few weeks of looking over the weekly prompts, and it was  _ hard _ to find the words to express. 

“You’re been writing a lot more lately.” Comes a voice. 

Killua pauses, picking up his head from against the table to where Ikalgo stands, and he catches the way Ikalgo’s eyes linger on the ink-stained napkin—a myriad of words and phrases and sentences, disjointed and utterly terrible. Some are crossed out, others circled away in an angry fury.

It seems a little harder to truly express what he means, and it makes Killua want to grit and tug at his hair, because…

...because writing was supposed to come so easily to him. It always did.

He finally gives a hum. 

“More or less.” 

Ikalgo arches an eyebrow, crossing his arms before taking a seat in front of Killua. 

“You don’t sound very content right now,” he says, “and I’ve known you long enough to know that you love writing, a lot. More than you liked studying to be a doctor.” 

A sigh escapes Killua’s lips. 

“I just—” 

It’s really, really hard to phrase it. 

Phrase it in a way that he won’t feel disgusted with himself. 

“It just feels like I can’t get my words across.” 

There’s a slight twitch to Ikalgo’s thick brows—a questioning gaze that lilts onto his face just momentarily. He tilts his head in thought, before leaning forward and sitting up. 

“What’s different now?” 

Killua frowns. “Huh?” 

Ikalgo sighs. “I mean, what are you writing now that’s not letting you write like before?” 

Well—shit. 

It’s one thing to think it, but to say it aloud? To admit it into the air, let the words leave his lips?

Killua colors red, face heating up, and his lips quiver—fingers tremble—before he grits his jaw and forces himself to spit out the words. 

“The,” he swallows, “the prompt this week has no theme or topic, so—”

He trails off. 

Silence lingers and rings loud. 

He takes a deep breath, and:

“How do you swoon someone?” 

Killua’s voice comes off too loud—too high-pitched. Discordant and frayed at the end of the syllable. 

Ikalgo’s eyes widen, and there’s a light blush covering his cheeks. He opens his mouth, shuts it, opens it again. He’s gaping like a fish out of water. 

“What the hell spurred this on?”

The chair screeches against the hardwood floor. Killua stands, pacing towards the window, and then back again, walking in circles. 

“You were a flirt back in high school. You were popular for it—that’s how we even started talking in the first place, remember?” 

Ikalgo stammers. 

“Yeah, but that’s different.” 

Killua falters in his steps, staring Ikalgo down and deadpanning. 

“You flirted with guys,” he says, “and I’m into a—into someone.” 

_ It’s still hard to say it.  _

_ To say that he’s “into” men. _

“Sit down,” Ikalgo says, standing up and grabbing Killua’s wrist, pulling him towards the chair once again.

There’s a beat of silence before he continues. 

“What I did and how I did it, it’s not something you can just apply to everyone. Everyone is different.”

The plants in the apartment sway a bit in the breeze of the air conditioner. 

“But, compliments are something that should seem obvious, but a lot of people just look over. Take note of hobbies—get to know them, be confident.” 

Killua pursues his lips and crosses his arms. “This is all really obvious stuff, idiot.” 

A kick from under the table connects against his ankle.

Ikalgo huffs, mimicking Killua’s crossed arms, leaning back into the backrest of the chair. “You’d be surprised at how the most obvious stuff is forgotten.” 

The words ring true in Killua’s head, and he’s left to ponder their weight. There has to be a better sentence for what he wants to say; for what he wants to express. __ Shuffling—Ikalgo is standing with a noise of complaint, groaning and stretching his arms up behind his head. Killua’s eyes flicker towards the scribbled napkin, and then him. 

“You’re dressed—going somewhere?” 

Ikalgo nods. “I have to meet at the library for a group project, but I’ll be back by the time you get back from your shift today. We can keep talking about this then, if you’re up for it.” 

Oh, yeah.

Sometimes it’s a little jarring—remembering that Killua is no longer in university. That despite having such a great time at the club, it didn’t erase the happenstance of his life at this moment. It didn’t remove the hurt, or the disappointment. It really, really doesn’t erase anything. 

But as Ikalgo gives his goodbyes and exits the apartment, Killua steels his own thoughts and refuses to fall into yet another fit of despair. Instead, he stands as the door clicks shut and the lock turns, and wanders into the living room—running through more phrases and sentences in his head.

The pen twirls between his index and middle finger, a quiet hum escaping his lips as he thinks. And the couch feels soft when he sinks into it, like vibrant, purple-colored clouds, enveloping him. He lets his thoughts wander, just for a moment. Just for a little bit, he’ll indulge. 

Halloween, at the nightclub. Four days ago. Gon’s charisma—the way he garners everyone’s attention. His personality. 

And just like that, the words come to him: 

_ It takes grace to hold presence the way you do. _

Killua’s eyes snap open, and he grips the pen, pushing himself off the couch. The springs squeak under the pressure of his thrust, and he’s tumbling into the kitchen, repeating the phrase in his head: again, and again, and again. Don’t forget it, don’t forget the words—he rips a napkin from the stand, and presses the nib of the pen onto the textured paper. 

_ It takes grace, to hold presence the way you do.  _

Killua releases a relieved sigh, and smiles. 

If his eyes soften around the words, no one has to know. 

The cash register rings and Killua can hear the way the metal screeches against the counter as Shoot counts the money. Killua is standing behind one of the curved display cases, grabbing the trays of pastries and setting atop the glass. There’s not too much to throw out today—though Killua has a sneaking suspicion that Knuckle will once again be found handing out leftovers to the homeless at the subway station.

“And you’re telling me that he wanted you to dance with him?” Shoot asks, a quiet smile gracing his lips. He doesn’t look up, but Killua feels flustered regardless. 

He nods. “We danced to Thriller, and then to some other hits.”

“Alone?” It’s Knuckle who speaks this time. 

Killua nods again, busying his hands and fighting the urge to tug on a strand of his hair. It’s embarrassing—it’s almost like they’re gossiping about the events—and it feels so stupidly trivial that Killua can’t figure out why the prospect of sharing the information makes his heartbeat funny. 

“We had a really good time,” he finally says. “I enjoyed it. There was a night-special drink, though I wasn’t inclined to try it—I’m sure the alcohol percentage was ridiculously high.” 

Knuckle gives a boisterous laugh at that, the palm of his hand hitting the wall. 

“Reminds me of when Shoot and I used to go clubbing back in the seventies.”

A surprised noise bubbles past Killua’s lips, and he looks between them both, brows furrowed—confused. 

“What?” Knuckle asks, “Can’t believe that we used to party like you? We’re not that old, y’know.” 

The register clicks shut, and Shoot stands, grabbing the yellow paper pad, and pen, and walking around the counter, towards Killua. He’s looking over Killua, counting the remaining items, looking over the pastries that were ordered more than others. 

“We would spend the entire night at clubs, or club hopping.” 

Killua is just a little taken aback. 

The prospect of  _ them _ dancing, well—it’s a little odd to think about. 

Shoot scoffs. “We would start off at some nice, mellow club at the beginning of the night. And then Knuckle,” Shoot pauses for emphasis, looking over with daggers in his eyes, “Knuckle was never satisfied with that. Didn’t tire him out—”

“—I was a young guy, lots of energy to spend, too little partying!” 

“— _ S _ o,” there’s a bite to Shoot’s words, but they held no malice, “we’d have to hop around to another club, one that was a little wilder, sometimes it was several. We were pulled around with our own group of friends, all of them eager to spend their nights and early mornings piss drunk.” 

Killua grabs one of the trays, continuing to stare at Shoot, completely enraptured in the conversation. 

He’s never been out clubbing with a group of friends like that. Much less so often. And he was never even out that late anyway—only recent developments proving him to stay out later than he ever did. 

His skin warms, thinking of the reason why. 

Knuckle is stumbling forward then, placing his hand on Shoot’s shoulder, setting down a newspaper over the cash register. 

“Speaking of clubs, that club we used to frequent recently shut down, did you see?”

Killua peers over the glass.

He can’t make out many of the words—it’s a small section of the newspaper, towards the lower-left corner, tucked away and hidden by other major titles and events. The new NES released onto American markets, the Kansas City Royals defeat the St. Louis Cardinals and secure their first World Title: actual world news, smothering local events and headlines.

There’s a look of confusion on Shoot’s face, before his face melts into understanding, lips opening into an  _ oh _ shape, and a teasing glint finds its home in his eyes. 

“Oh, I really liked that one—so many guys loved the attention.” 

Killua blushes, feeling embarrassed to be hearing in on their squabbling. 

At those words, Knuckle nudges Shoot, and Shoot laughs, throwing his head back and giving such a loud, genuine laugh that Killua smiles at the interaction. But then his eyes catch onto the small gesture—Shoot bringing his hand up to rest against Knuckle’s fingers on his shoulder, their fingers brushing and meeting only momentarily, that he’s left to his thoughts.

“I don’t see what the problem mentioning it is, it’s where we met. You can thank Bisky and Palm for that, otherwise, I wouldn’t have even noticed you.”

Feigned hurt crosses Knuckle’s face.

Killua holds a snort, watching as Shoot goes back to shuffling the dollar bills into their respective plastic bags. 

“It holds good memories,” Shoot looks over at Killua, nudging Knuckle, grinning. “Killua, you should’ve seen this man all those years ago. Dressing like some delinquent, spit straight out of the Bronx, fit right in with the mess of trash and abandoned buildings.”

“Yeah, yeah—talk it up. The pompadour hairdo was in style! Get back to counting that money while you’re at it,” Knuckle barks, pulling away after the comment with a small smile. “Killua—you can set those pastries in the kitchen, I’ll take them out later tonight.” 

A nod, and Killua takes out the last of the pastry pans, layering them as many as he can in one go, squeezing around Shoot’s seat positioned awkwardly at the corner of the counter. Killua’s eyes catch Knuckle looking over the stocked items—noting down the number of eggs they have, and the pounds of sugar and flour still left. 

Surprisingly, for as incompetent of a man as Knuckle may seem, his math never failed—and he was often quicker than Shoot when it came to predicting costs and outcomes, especially when it came to the state-regulated taxes. 

And then Killua’s thoughts are shifting to  _ them,  _ to the nature of Shoot and Knuckle’s relationship—how they’re definitely more than just friends or business partners. From their actions to their gazes to their words. They’re closer than that. And Killua can think a little more assuredly, that the rings on their fingers have to do with it. 

He sighs to himself, resting his hands on his hips, leaning his head down, and then craning it up for a breath. 

Gon wasn’t like the other guys. 

Gon was more than that. 

Even if it disgusts Killua to think about, that it wasn’t right to feel this way, Gon was to Killua what Knuckle was to Shoot, in a way. The way he stood out among the crowd—though, Killua pauses the thought, smiling. Gon stood out regardless of situation, he was radiant like that. Unique. Like light, kind of. 

Gon topped anyone, even those men in those “fitness” magazines Ikalgo had let him borrow. No one compared. 

_ You walk in, and my heart beats different; you’ve got something they don’t. _

The words form in his mind so simply, with such ease. Killua pats his back pockets for the napkin, fingers wringing through the fabric, digging in, until he feels the familiar softness of the worn tissue. 

He looks around, reaching for the cup of pens near the edge of the sink, ripping it out from its settled position. He sets the napkin against one of the fridges, putting pressure to lean forward and scribble the words down more messily than he’s keen on admitting. 

_ You walk in, and my heart beats different; you’ve got something they don’t. _

Yeah. 

Yeah. 

Killua can acknowledge that what he feels is a little more than just a likeness. It borders past interested; he’s treading dangerous territory. And despite feeling his insides curl, despite telling himself he can’t possibly like another man—Killua finds that maybe it wouldn’t be all that bad. 

His father couldn’t possibly know. What  _ does _ he know? 

He’s not the one who spent all of middle school in a crisis, not the one who felt nervous changing in the boy’s locker room—he didn’t feel anxious about what others would think, and certainly didn’t doubt his attraction to men or women alike. 

It stands testament, more truthful than anything, than when Killua had nothing to go off of, and nothing to ground him, he found a friendship with Ikalgo in a high school classroom. He found a friend that he could be more truthful to, in a way he couldn’t with Alluka. 

And God—Killua hopes he’s listening, with every ounce of his being, he hopes God is tuning in—because Alluka is alone, she’s alone, without Killua, in that household. If they threw Killua out, then they surely wouldn’t hesitate to do the same to Alluka, and Killua can’t possibly imagine what she feels. 

Losing her brother, among heavier topics—

—Topics they discussed at length, staying up nights together—huddled under the blankets, skimming books borrowed from the library and pamphlets taken from protests and informal institutions alike. It would be disingenuous to say Killua  _ wasn’t _ closest with Alluka, because anything other than that would be a lie.

Alluka was his little sister, the reason he was even going along with his parent's wishes of a medicinal career in the first place. Helping people was an amazing plus, but helping  _ Alluka _ _ transition  _ came first and foremost. 

He sighs, rubbing his temples. 

Her birthday is coming up, too. 

And he’s not so sure what to do. 

The November air is chilly, dropping to the low forties, and the trees rattle from the cold—a few bare, others still clinging to their reddening and browning leaves. This late into the night there aren’t many people wandering down the block, much less this part of the city—where the blocks stretch for what seem to be miles. 

Killua lets out a breath, watching it fog in front of him.

“You that bored with me, darling?” 

That’s Gon speaking—Killua’s heartbeat picks up, and he reddens, shaking his head and looking over. 

They’re not that far from Heaven Nightclub, just a few blocks over, close to the stretch of untouched land. 

“No, not at all.” 

It runs quiet, but not in an uncomfortable way. 

From here, walking down the pavement, crunching past fallen leaves, Killua can distinctly hear the crickets chirping, and a rustle in the leaves from scurrying animals. Gon’s fingers are trailing down and dancing along the black rails that separate the pavement from the forest of low trees. 

“You know,” he says, looking over at Killua, “this definitely wasn’t what I had in mind when you said I wasn’t ready for your type of nights.” 

There’s a certain mirth dancing in his eyes, when Gon's hazel eyes meet Killua’s own. 

Killua snorts. “You were the one making assumptions.” 

Gon laughs at that, a quiet thing, but the sound twinkles regardless. 

“Well, it certainly is gentlemanly of you to walk on the outside of the sidewalk—letting me walk on the inside.” A teasing lilt. 

This—

—this walk they’re having together. It’s comfortable. Killua feels a little more like himself. 

“Apologies, your honor,” Killua teases back, tilting his head, removing his hand from his pocket to gesture, “hard to break the habit.” 

They share a laugh. 

And in the darkness of the night, barely illuminated by the light posts scattered about, Killua feels warm fingers skim the dorsal of his hand. Goosebumps jump across the entirety of his alabaster skin, and his face reddens. 

_ Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look,  _ he chants, biting the inside of his cheek.

The fingers pull away, and from the corner of his eye, he can see Gon rest his hand back in his jean jacket. There isn’t much room for disappointment to blossom in his chest, knowing how Gon likes to act. He smiles, looking over, before realizing something. 

There isn’t much he actually knows about Gon. 

Gon remains a mystery to him, just as elusive to Killua as he is to the rest of the nightclub. 

He’s private, sure, but he also doesn’t share much at all. Killua is sure that Gon knows more about Killua’s life, in the sparing details he’s voiced out to the wind, than Killua knows about Gon’s own life. Walking down this long block, closer towards the entry of the park, this is a nice time to ask, isn’t it?

“You’re as much as a mystery to me as you are to others, you know.” 

Gon looks over, a small smile spreading over his lips. 

“My favorite color is green, if you must know.” 

Killua deadpans, stopping in his steps to cross his arms, and Gon pauses—gaze curious before bursting out with a laugh. His hand comes down to rest on Killua’s shoulder, and Killua is hyper-aware of the touch, trying his best to reign in the nervous twitch of his mouth. 

“I’m sorry, darling,” he laughs.

After a beat of silence, he opens his mouth. “My aunt, Mito, she raised me.”

His aunt?

“I used to come from an island, y’know?” They’re walking again, side by side. “It was so small, you could bike from one side to another in under two hours.”

“Really?” Killua asks.

Gon hums. “I miss it a lot, even though I don’t remember much. We left when I was little under five, but I’ll never forget the Caribbean sea smell, or waking up every Saturday morning to watch the boats come into the single port.”

“It must’ve been nice, living in such a small area, where you know everyone.” 

They pass under the shadow of a huge tree, its leaves swaying briskly. 

Furrowing his brows, Gon shakes his head. “Not really. The island was poor, we lived in poverty. My father is a deadbeat, and my aunt started working when she was really young to gather enough money to move me out of there. We moved here once she was able to get our papers in order.”

Killua couldn’t possibly imagine what that must be like—leaving the only home he knows, into a completely new area to start a new life. 

“But you should’ve seen the views from that island, darling.” Gon says, gaze fixed to the sky. “This Rotten Apple could never compare.”

His voice is breathless and small. Reminiscing. 

Closing his eyes, Killua breathes in the fresh air. 

“And your confidence? Can I chalk that up to the island too?” 

Gon looks over, pace slowing, before giving the faintest of smiles. 

“Not at all. I was the studious type, and outgoing—but I was the type that didn’t mind being alone either, y’know? People were naturally drawn to me, I wasn’t exactly seeking it. And I feigned confidence until I met more people.”

He pauses, looking forward, down their path. A tight-lipped smile crossing his features.

“Actually, it was a really small group of people, in high school. I built myself up because of them.” 

His voice is so small. It’s barely above a whisper, and Killua gets the feeling that maybe it’s time to stop pressing for more details about Gon. 

A beat of silence, as Killua tries to find the words. Formulate what he means into a phrase.

“I was so different from you,” Killua admits, and Gon looks over. “ I mean, I still am. I was really closed up in high school. If you think I was bad now—” Killua whistles, and Gon laughs, hiding his smile behind his hand. 

“Ikalgo, y’know, my best friend, you met him during the Halloween party—”

“—I remember, darling.” 

Killua flusters, cheeks reddening. He can feel a familiar headache coming, the ones that spiral from being too excited, too giddy and sociable: rambling on about pointless things in a conversation that’s going all-too-well. His heart thrums in his chest, fingers twitch.

“Well, believe it or not, Ikalgo was the private school playboy.” 

Gon makes an exaggerated gasp. 

Killua snorts and nods, eyes crinkling into a smile.

“He flirted with a lot of guys—I actually met him through the rumors, when I was, y’know.” He pauses, frowning to himself, before continuing. “You could always find him flirting up a storm with lots of other guys. Confident, and all. Swooning men left and right.” 

“And he didn’t get into trouble?”

Killua shakes his head. “Surprisingly, no. We went to a pretty religious school, but the administration never found out.”

“Chalked it up to men being men, confident with themselves?” 

“You bet.” 

They both laugh.

“I didn’t do much in my time in high school,” Gon says. “But you never tried to get with him?”

Killua recoils, grimacing and wrinkling his nose. 

“Gag me with a spoon, yeah? Ikalgo is my best friend, he’s been helping me come to terms with the situation I’m in. It’s still—it’s still a work-in-progress.” Killua chuckles to himself. “I think I’m taking a pace slower than a tortoise.”

The entrance of the park comes into view—a large ornamental iron gate just a few paces in front of them. Just as Killua suspected, there’s not a single person in the park at this hour. He’s not even sure what hour it is exactly. It was eleven o’clock when he headed out to the club, and they didn’t stay too long there once he found Gon.

Gon raises his arms. “‘Was just kidding, darling. But let me bestow some wisdom, hm?” 

“Shoot your shot.” 

A hint of a smile, and he gestures to the space around them. 

“The world doesn’t love you,” Gon starts, voice low. “It doesn’t pay your bills or take care of you. It’ll never meet your standards. You meet your own standards, so why worry about where you fit in this world? Life is too short to be stressing one hell and a half over why you are the way you are.”

Killua wants to interject, but he’s not even sure what to  _ say. _

“Aunt Mito said progress is still progress; it won’t be linear, but a little each day starts to add up, y’know?”

Killua nods. Gon smiles. And then Gon’s eyes are meeting the swing set just down the path at the entrance—the rusted iron seats creaking in the weak wind, and he’s grinning, a sound of excitement coiling past his lips, and he’s pointing. 

“Race you there!” 

His feet are slamming against the pavement before Killua is processing the words, but as soon as he does, Killua shouts in indignance, picking up his speed and nearly tumbling onto the group—oxfords smacking against stone and dipping into the sand of the play area. 

Gon is left in the dust behind him, but not by much. 

Killua flings himself onto the swing, sitting there and taking a moment to rearrange himself as Gon catches his breath—crosses his legs and rests his hands on his knees, all mockingly. 

He grins. “You should really know your opponents before you challenge them.” 

Gon huffs, cheeks puffing into a pout. 

“I wasn’t aware you ran track, darling.” 

_ That _ gets a laugh out of Killua. It’s such a wild assumption. 

“I didn’t—never had time between studies. But I did some endurance and muscle work my last years of high school, into university.”

Gon takes a seat beside him, fingers curling around the chains, and he leans over, pinching Killua’s bicep. 

“I can tell.” 

Killua flusters pathetically, pushing into the dirt to swing a little further from Gon’s touch. Gon laughs, airy and light. 

The swings creak as they move—and it’s a little uncomfortable, the seats too low to the ground, Killua’s knees are practically bending against his stomach to push forward. And the hard rubber seat digs into his hips, denting the skin there and rubbing it red. 

In the silence of the night, with the moon in clear sight, Killua feels just a little vulnerable. 

“It feels like the world stopped breathing tonight,” Killua whispers, staring at the starless sky. 

Gon looks over. 

The seats creak loudly. 

“Why’d’ya say that?”

Just a little, Killua cranes his head to the side to look at Gon, before looking up at the black canvas sky. 

His hand is starting to hurt from the grip on the chain. It blisters his skin. 

“It’s cold, not that many people are out, everything always feels a little still when fall is changing into winter, but—” Killua pauses, thinking over his words.

_ Should he? _

_ Is it wise to open his mouth and say that? _

“—But, I think it stopped breathing because you’re here. You have that kind of effect.” 

Shock colors Gon’s features, and he looks away. Killua doesn’t dare look over at him. 

“You’re getting bold, darling. Color me interested.” 

Killua chuckles, and Gon looks over again, smiling. 

“But I have a feeling that isn’t the reason for why you mentioned that.”

His heart does a little flip at being caught. 

“How’d you know?” 

The swings quieten in their creaking, and Gon is digging his sneaker into the sand to slow his momentum, until his movement comes to a pause, and he sits there, waiting. Killua drags his toes into the sand and lets his speed dwindle into nothing as the second's tick by in silence. 

“I’m just exceptionally good at reading people, among other things.” A wink, and it forces a light tinge of red to wiggle its way onto Killua's cheeks. “But c’mon then, spill. I’m listening.”

Biting his lip, Killua looks away. 

The darkness shrouds the pavement far from them, and it grows darker further into the distance. It’s hard to tell they’re in a park at all, except for the lamp posts and occasionally phone booths which offer a little bit of solace and light. 

Alabaster hands play with the chains, fingering the holes and gripping onto the rough rust.

“My younger sister’s birthday is coming up,” he admits, barely above a whisper, heart pounding in his chest. “She’s my everything, and she’s like me, kinda. I wish she was here, instead of with my family. Without her, everything feels a little different.” 

Silence. 

The crickets chirp. 

Branches snip and snap and rustle. 

Gon exhales. “If she’s anything like you, she’ll be strong enough to withhold it. Especially because she has you as her older brother.” 

Eyebrows raising, it’s hard  _ not _ to be shocked at the sincere words. Killua looks over—eyes wide, breath caught in his throat. Gon is smiling, smiling where his eyes crinkle into crescents, and his lips are curling into something so sweet, that Killua is sure that’s the reason they call Gon  _ “Bocca Di Rosa”. _

“Can I—” Killua chokes out, “Can I ask for a favor?”

Gon stares at him before nodding.

“Can you, uhm, can you call my house—I remember the number, and, and, I’ll pay for the call—can you ask for Alluka Zoldyck? I’d do it but they don’t let me contact the house, and the butler will answer the phone, and—”

A warm hand is touching his knee, and Gon looks at him with soft eyes. 

“You don’t have to explain. I’ll call for you.” 

An incredulous laugh wheezes past his throat—weak and quiet and utterly thankful—Killua’s hands tremble as he stands, and Gon follows, treading their way over to one of the phone booths closest to the swings. The light flickers only momentarily, and Gon reaches forward, fingers gripping the phone before Killua’s hand touches his shoulder. 

“She’s a high school senior. Say that you’re working on an English project with her, it’s a book report, for Mrs. Davis. And uhm,” Killua reaches past Gon, their bodies touching only for a second, before he’s slotting a single quarter into the machine.

The space within the booth is tight between the both of them, but Gon squeezes into one corner, and Killua into the other, and they manage. 

With the phone to his ear, Killua quickly inputs the number of his parent’s house—fingers trembling—and as soon as he hears the dial, he scrambles to hand it to Gon. 

His heart is breathing erratically. Killua taps his foot against the ground, looks between the coin slot, and the numbers, and the coil and phone and Gon and—his hand balls into a fist, the other resting on Gon’s shoulder still. He licks his lips, running over his thoughts in his head. 

_ Gotoh will probably pick up the phone.  _

_ It’s late, Alluka would probably be in bed. Or maybe she’s awake.  _

_ Will they even let Gon speak to her, so late into the night? _

“Hi,” Gon’s voice is sweet like honey—soft and precious as he speaks into the phone, “I’m Alluka’s project partner for a paper we have due in Missus Davis’ English class. I know it’s late, but I was wondering if I could look over a detail in the report with Alluka?” 

Silence.

One second, another: several tick by.

Killua feels his eyes dampen. 

They won’t let Gon through. He won’t be able to speak with his little sister, two days before her birthday. 

And then: 

“Hi, is this Alluka?” A beat. “There’s someone who wants to speak with you.” 

Gon is pulling the phone away from his ear, looking over at Killua and gesturing. And as he hands it over, he can hear her voice—he can hear Alluka, and her confusion, and his heart picks up the pace. 

Shaking, Killua grabs the phone, pressing it against his ear and leaning against the wall of the phone booth as best he can. 

His knees feel weak. 

“Hey, Lulu.” 

A gasp. 

“Killua?” It’s a hushed whisper. 

“I miss you,” Killua laughs into the phone, eyes wetting. 

Alluka giggles, voice quiet. “I miss you too.” She repeats the words back so quickly, with zero hesitation. “I love you, I was scared. I wasn’t sure where you were and you were just gone. There was no way for me to know where you went after they just kicked you out after the dinner, they didn’t even let you grab your things, Kil, I’m sorry, I—” 

“Hey, hey, I’m okay, I love you too, I’m right here, I haven’t gone anywhere.” 

Another laugh, this time more breathless. Killua smiles into the phone. 

“It’s your birthday in two days.” 

“I know. It’s not gonna be the same without you here.” 

“I was actually calling because I wanted to get you a little cake, and at least celebrate it with you for a bit.” 

They’re speaking so quickly, like they’re running out of time.

“But how will you see me?”

“I don’t know, I’ll figure out how to find you.” 

Gon’s fingers tap his elbow, and Killua’s eyes flicker up. 

“Tell Alluka to tell her parents to take her to the library to meet with me for that book report tomorrow.”

“Gon, I couldn’t possibly ask that—”

“—Don’t interrupt me, darling. We’ll meet her there, and sneak her out.” 

Killua can’t believe his ears. Can’t believe the words Gon is saying. That Gon is willing to help him to this extent, out of kindness. His lips twitch, processing the turn of events. 

“Did you hear that, Lulu?”

“Yeah, yeah, I did.”

The line goes quiet. 

“Alluka?”

“It’s late, I have to go—” 

Killua’s stomach drops. 

“Oh.” 

Everything feels heavy.

“Yeah, uhm—”

“I love you, I love you, please stay safe, okay? I miss you so much.” 

“Yeah, I feel that way too. I’ll do my part of the project, don’t worry, I’ll meet with you tomorrow at the York New Public Library to discuss the final pieces of the paper with you in person. Goodnight.” 

The line clicks. 

The tears well in Killua’s eyes—blur his vision—and his throat seizes, spasming and constraining and making it hard to breathe. Only a few tears fall, and from the corner of his eye, Killua can see the way Gon reaches forward with his fingers, only to stop in his tracks and pull back into himself. 

“You’ll see her soon,” he mumbles, and his eyes hold the words sadness. 

_ Your eyes stole all my words away. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading Chapter Six of "You Take My Breath Away"!
> 
> Hello everyone! Apologies for such a long time in-between updates. I had promised an update prior to New Years, but I was actually hospitalized for a week on New Years, and directly after leaving I was due to relocate to a new state for university. It’s been a hectic moving process, settling down and whatnot. I wanted to sit down and properly write out this chapter before diving into my work for this year's Hunter x Hunter Big Bang! I do worry that interest in this story may dwindle with how slow I’m updating this, I apologize a thousand times over. It’s infinitely harder to write now. I also worry that this story in general may not be interesting, I know it's slower paced, and it requires a lot of character development from a lot of different sides, rather than just a straight-fast romance.
> 
> There’s been a lot more development in this chapter, though—we’re finally starting to learn a little more about Gon, but he seems keen on keeping his story private, as well as just flirting with Killua. Or is there something more? :> Worry not, I am excited to write a chapter of Gon’s POV (eventually, further into the plot of this story, we're not nearly there yet), and we’ll be inside his little head for an entire chapter and Learn Exactly who he is :))) And Killua and Alluka interacting was just so cute!
> 
> That being said, I am excited to introduce my new co-writer, Moon, for this story and all future stories. She will be taking a more active role in helping me write, as there’s a lot of work to do, and I can’t do it alone. I hope you enjoy our collaborations just as much as the prior co-writer and I! I am excited to continue writing with Moon’s help; I trust her judgement for picking up and continuing the story with me, as well as future stories. 
> 
> I have a Twitter, so yell at me on there: [@peachiinari](https://www.twitter.com/peachiinari)  
> Due to popular demand, I've made a tumblr: [@peachiinari](https://www.peachiinari.tumblr.com)  
> 


End file.
